Testing to Destruction  Part 1
by sparowe
Summary: A badly beaten stranger comes to Michael for help, but he's more than he seems to be.  In exchange for him, a foreign agency offers Michael his life back.  Author's Note:  Takes place after Burn Notice's "Rough Seas" and Doctor Who's "Doomsday".
1. Chapter 1

_When dealing with a time and space travelling alien... well, your best option is just don't. They're liable to lead to doing things well outside of your pay grade. But if for some reason you don't have any choice, then it's a good idea to get the job done as quickly as possible-even if it means going against your own interests._

"Wait; so this guy thinks that he's an **alien**?" Sam gave Michael an incredulous look as he took another drink of beer.

"No, this guy **is** an alien," Michael corrected. He could understand the difficulties his friend was having-he'd had them, himself. "They call him a Time Lord."

"'They'?"

"A military group based out of the UK called UNIT. The documentation I've been able to find on them indicates that they were involved with the United Nations at some point, but that the association is no longer welcome."

"Why?"

"I don't know; didn't bother to dig that far. I've got more immediate problems."

"Like the guy sleeping in your loft."

"That's one of them, yes. Another is the fact that he thought this group would be interested in helping him."

"They're not?"

"I don't think so. They're a little **too** eager to get their hands on him." Michael hesitated, then added, "They offered to have my record expunged."

Sam stared. "Can they- no, they're not even from our government. There's no way."

"I don't know, Sam. From what I've seen, I think they could."

"And you're not jumping at this why?"

"Because it can't change people's minds about me. If I'm going to do that, I have to do it my way."

"But that's not all." Sam said knowingly.

Michael tried his best to look innocent. "I didn't say anything."

"Yeah, but you didn't need to. I know you, Mike. Some guy shows up needing help, and you just can't say 'no'. Don't look at me like that, it's one of your better qualities. But what are you getting from doing all this? Space money?"

"You really don't believe me, do you?"

"Aw, Mike, I'm not sayin' that. Hell, I believe **he** believes it, and maybe even this UNIT that you're talkin' about, but-"

Michael stood up. "C'mon." He said, gesturing with one hand. "Come with me."

"You're serious?"

"I'm serious," Michael answered, then went up the stairs.

Sam started to follow, then turned back to grab his beer. By the time he reached the upper loft, Michael was picking up a stethoscope from a milk crate that had been turned into a make-shift bedside table. The bed that it was next to was new, too; a queen sized air mattress that took up most of the available space. The bed's occupant, by contrast, did not. He was around six feet tall and slender, with tousled brown hair and a pale complexion-which made the abrasion on his right cheek stand out starkly. His eyes were closed, and his eyelids had a bruised look to them.

"He looks human," Sam said.

"Looks can be deceiving." Michael offered him the stethoscope.

Sam sighed, but set his beer down on the computer desk in order to take the offered instrument. He switched places with his friend so that he could sit down on the edge of the bed and put the eartips in. With one hand he gingerly undid the man's shirt, and placed the tunable diaphragm against his chest. "All right, so, he has a heart beat." He twisted to look up at Michael. "It's a little too rapid, but I don't see-"

"Try the other side."

"What?"

"Put the stethoscope on the other side of his chest and **listen**."

_Try to convince someone that you have a living, breathing alien in your apartment, and you run the risk of making them think that you're crazy, no matter how well they know you. Even a highly trained operative is not immune to stress, and delusions-while uncommon-are not unheard of. Let them hear that your guest has two distinct heartbeats, on the other hand, and you're well on the way to having them believe you._

Sam did as he was told, then jerked back as if he'd been burned. "What the hell?"

"Two heartbeats; two hearts. Even if he's not an alien- well..."

"I'm a Time Lord." The man's voice was faint, but strongly accented; British-sounding. His eyes were open; brown and feverish. They glanced sideways and took in Sam with a briefly arched eyebrow. "Oh. Hello." And with that, his eyes fell shut. If he was concerned about the sudden appearance of a stranger, he didn't show it. Then again, it was hard to say if he was in a position to be concerned about anything.

After a pause and a few laboured breaths, he opened his eyes again, this time looking at Michael. "Did you ring the number I gave you?"

"Yeah, about that. Why do those people want you so badly?"

"I don't understand."

"Let's just say that they were willing to offer a **lot** to get me to hand you over. I thought you said they would help you."

"Should have done." The man answered, frowning. "Unless... no. No; that can't be it, that's mad."

Michael continued to watch him, waiting. He moved slightly to one side to make room for Sam, who had gotten back to his feet.

"The Ood; he tried to warn me, didn't he? Said that the tide had turned, that loss could... could consume me." The man looked away from them for a moment, but that did little to conceal his emotions. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter than before. "I thought that he meant Rose."

"Who's Rose?" Sam asked.

"A friend." The Time Lord's voice was little more than a strained whisper. "I lost her."

"Is that why they did this to you?" Michael asked.

"What? No; I dunno. I can't remember!" The man clenched at his hair in frustration, then gasped and let his hands drop. Eyes squeezed shut, he seemed to fight for breath.

"Easy," Michael cautioned, "take it easy. You're safe now." He could feel Sam's eyes on him and ignored him. How could he explain to his friend what he couldn't explain to himself? For his own part, he couldn't decide if he was relieved or worried when the man slid back into unconsciousness.

Downstairs, the door opened. "Michael?" Fiona's voice drifted up the stairs. "Where are you?"

This time, the former spy was the one who shut his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

_'The whole truth and nothing but the truth' is fine for the courtroom, but it doesn't always work that way in real life. Sometimes it's best to go with part of the truth, and let the person that you're talking to draw their own conclusions._

"We're up here," Sam called. "You've gotta see this; Mikey's gone all X-Files on us."

_Of course, if you don't get your story straight with your partner first, you might as well not bother._

"What?" Fiona asked, then stopped as she reached the top of the stairs. Her eyebrows raised as she took in the scene. "He's kind of cute," she said finally. "Who is he?"

"He calls himself the Doctor," Michael answered, before Sam could say anything further.

"Doctor who?"

"Don't know. I asked, and all he said was 'just the Doctor'."

"Maybe they don't have names where he comes from," Sam suggested.

"'Where he comes from'?" Fiona echoed.

Michael rubbed a hand across his eyes. "According to a military group in the UK that he put me into contact with, the Doctor is a Time Lord-an alien."

"As in little green men," Sam added helpfully.

"Well, he certainly doesn't look green to me," Fiona said, sitting down on the bed. "Although these bruises will be, in a few days." She looked up at Michael. "Where did you find him?"

"I didn't; he found me. Staggered up to the Charger as I was getting out of it, and pretty much collapsed on me. Only thing he said then was 'help me'."

"So naturally you brought him inside your defences."

"Fi, look at the guy. These injuries haven't been faked; he's probably more dead than alive."

"Tell her about the hearts," Sam prompted.

"Right, he has two hearts. Anyway," Michael continued, ignoring Fiona's expression, "if he's a plant; I want to know: is he wired, or is he rigged. I want to look like I took the bait while having him under my control."

"And obviously you're satisfied with what you've learned. Where does the rest of it come in?"

"The first time he regained consciousness, he gave me the number of an organization called UNIT; said they'd be willing to help. But when I talked to them, I just got a real bad feeling about it-something wasn't right."

"How do you know that helping this 'Doctor' is the right thing to do?"

"I don't. But halfway through the call they'd pulled my dossier and offered to have my record expunged if I'd cooperate; all I had to do was securely deliver him to a location that they would specify. I told them I wasn't interested in human trafficking, and that's when they told me what-who-he is." Michael sighed. "The fact is, there **are** references to a man called 'The Doctor' in various top secret government files."

"How recently?" Sam asked, curious despite himself.

"Very-and not at all. There's at least one mention that goes all the way back to Queen Victoria."

"That's impossible." His friend scoffed.

"So is having two hearts. If he isn't who UNIT says he is, then the only explanation is that it's some kind of title handed down. That would explain the changes in his appearance, too."

"Regeneration," the Doctor whispered. With an effort, he opened his eyes. "When I take too much physical damage, my body regenerates. It... changes me."

"Then why haven't you?" Michael asked, sparing a thought to wonder if the unconsciousness had been feigned. Even if it had, he decided that it didn't matter-what they were discussing was already known to the Time Lord.

"I can't." Even though his voice was low, the last word was tinged with desperation. "The process, it hasn't started."

"Can you do something to trigger it?"

"No." The Doctor paused for breath. "It's involuntary. Other Time Lords could force it on me, but..."

"But what?" Fiona asked. Her manner had changed slightly, and Michael could see that she'd gone from being suspicious to sympathetic.

The Doctor made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I'm the last. There is no other."

Fiona's eyes widened; she made as if to speak, but for a moment no words came. "I'm sorry." She said finally, reaching out to lightly place a hand on top of one of the Doctor's.

"What happened to them?" Michael asked.

The Doctor's eyes shifted to Michael. "They're dead," he said simply.

"I think," Sam said, looking at Michael, "that you just found out why UNIT wants to get ahold of this guy. If he's the last of his kind..." The former SEAL shook his head, leaving a silence filled with implications.

"Could that be it?" Michael asked the Doctor. "Is that why they wanted me to deliver you to them?"

"If something has changed, yes. We've been allies, but... there are those who don't care about what I've done; only what I am."

Sam looked puzzled, so Michael explained: "UNIT is a taskforce designated to deal with extraterrestrial threats. Apparently Britain has been subject to more... visitations than the US, so they take things like this pretty seriously over there."

"And all we've got is Area 51," Sam remarked. "Great."

The Time Lord shuddered at the mention.

"It's real?" Sam asked in surprise.

"Too much by half," the Doctor replied grimly, and said no more. Michael wondered about his reasoning behind that; was he too weak, or simply unwilling?

"Do you have any American contacts?" Michael asked.

"No," the Doctor answered, with a slight shake of his head. "Fond as I am of this planet, I mainly prefer London. That lot can't seem to stay out of trouble, and-" He broke off with a pained expression, then continued more quietly. "And Rose lived there."

Michael saw Fiona's questioning gaze and shook his head quickly. He didn't know if Rose had been another Time Lord (Time Lady?), but he had a feeling that whoever she had been, she was dead now. The matter might have to be dealt with, but not at the moment.

"All right, what about in London?"

"No, they've all- No. I'm alone."

Michael fervently hoped that the unfinished sentence had not been about to end with the word "died". Sam apparently had the same thought, because he was casting worried glances in his friend's direction. Despite that, he didn't miss Fiona's next words.

"Not anymore," she said firmly, meeting the Doctor's eyes.

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't make any audible comment. Michael understood; he knew that tone, too. The thing was, against all reason, he found that he shared her desire to help.

"All you need to worry about," she continued, "is getting some rest."

"It's not safe," the Doctor protested, trying to push himself up in the bed. The effort clearly cost him, and Fiona was able to prevent him from sitting up simply by putting a light hand on his chest. He gave in with a groan, collapsing back against the pillow.

"It's safe here," Fiona replied. "Michael... helps people. He can help you, too."

The Doctor's eyes had closed, but now he opened them to look at her again. A ghost of a smile graced his features for a moment. "Then perhaps that's why the TARDIS brought me here, of all places. Brilliant."

"The-" Michael started to ask.

"No more questions," Fiona interrupted, glaring at Michael over her shoulder. "He needs to sleep."

For just a moment, the Doctor and Michael met each other's eyes-they wore identical expressions of bemusement.

"Right, then," the Time Lord said, and shut his eyes. He sighed a moment later, and soon some of the tension left his body.


	3. Chapter 3

Fiona watched him for a few moments, then looked up at the others. "Let's go downstairs."

"He'll still be able to hear us," Sam muttered, but he was the first one down the stairs.

"We need to find out what happened to him," Fiona said, making herself comfortable on Michael's bed.

"That part's obvious," Sam replied. "Better question is, why is he **here**?"

"No, Fiona's right," Michael said, frowning. "What we don't have is enough information, so let's start with the assumption that UNIT did this to him."

"Do you really believe that he doesn't remember, Mike?" Sam asked.

"It's possible," Michael allowed. "Enough trauma, enough pain, and the brain starts to work to block it out. Or it could have been something that seemed insignificant at the time, and got lost in the rest of it."

"Perhaps they did something to him so that he can't remember," Fiona suggested.

Michael had been pacing, but now he stopped to look at her. "Maybe the question isn't what they've done, but why. You can get a common thug to rough someone up; why would a military operation need to do something like that?"

"Why would you do it?" Sam asked.

"Depends. First thing comes to mind is to incapacitate." Michael shook his head. "That can't be it; they've got to have better ways."

"Second thing," Sam prompted.

"To send a message. But to who? It sounds like everyone he's ever cared about is dead."

"Maybe they're trying to tell him that he's next?" Fiona asked, but even she didn't seem satisfied with the suggestion.

"No. If they wanted to kill him, they would have killed him. Which leaves... doing it to mask something else."

_As a general rule, people are easy to misdirect. If you want a guy's keycard, send a pretty girl to flirt with him. A few drinks and a dance later, he's got no clue what happened and you have access to wherever you want. Likewise, if you beat someone to a pulp, he's not going to notice that you've taken something-or left it behind._

"Either they've stolen something from him, or they planted something on him." Michael said decisively.

"Then we should start with his clothing," Fiona suggested. "I'll go."

Sam watched her go up the stairs, and then turned back to look at Michael. "You're just going to let her go?"

"What; you want to do it?"

"Yeah, right."

Fiona returned a few moments later, her hands full. "We'll have to ask him when he wakes up, whether anything has been taken, or if it doesn't belong here."

"You did that without waking him up?" Sam asked.

"Most of it was in his coat-but yes, thank you very much, I did." Fiona smiled. "I've got a light touch." She laid the Doctor's belongings down on the kitchen counter. "The things in his pockets seem ordinary enough; string, this key, a pad of paper, pencil, a pair of glasses, some sort of flashlight, matches and... a banana." She gave them a perplexed look and shrugged. "The really interesting bit was in the back of his coat."

"Hidden in the lining?" Michael asked.

"No. Caught right in the back." Fiona laid what looked to be a cross between a dart and a shell casing down on the table. It was pewter in colour, with what appeared to be tiny blue lights that had burnt out at the tail end. The other, narrower side was hollow and scorched looking. "What do you suppose that is?"

"Good question," Michael murmured, as he picked it up to examine it. "Obviously a projectile weapon of some sort, but I've never seen anything like this before." He passed it to Sam, who frowned as he studied it.

"Closest thing I can think of is a dart from a blowgun, but all this?" Sam tapped the end with the lights. "No idea what that is."

"And the scorch marks?" Fiona asked, taking it from him.

"Exploding head." Sam said with a shrug.

Fiona shook her head. "Can't be; there's no mark on his coat." She looked at Michael. "What about on his back?"

"Didn't look that closely." The former spy admitted.

"Michael!"

He stared at her in exasperation. "What do you want, Fi? The guy's a total mess. I made sure that he wasn't going to bleed out, and that he didn't have any serious fractures. Other than that, I've been a little busy."

"Honestly," Fiona said, with a shake of her head. Leaving the strange casing on the counter, she picked up the Doctor's things and headed back up the stairs.

"I thought you said he needed to sleep," Sam called.

"That was before I thought he could have been poisoned," she shot back. Reaching the upper loft, she lay the Doctor's effects down on the computer desk, and perched on the side of his bed. "Doctor," she said, laying a hand on his. The title felt strange in place of a name, but she had nothing else to call him. "Doctor, I need you to wake up. Come, now." It was as if his accent had kindled her own; a slight Irish lilt coloured her words.

The Doctor opened his eyes slowly, but managed another faint smile when he saw her. "I don't even know your name."

"Fiona."

"The lady beautiful and fair."

"Are you sure you're not from around here?" Fiona teased lightly, surprised to hear him quote the meaning of her name so readily.

"Quite certain."

Fiona smiled, and reached out to lightly brush his bangs. It was a means of giving comfort-as well as subtly checking for fever. But when her hand made contact, her eyes widened. His skin was extremely cool to the touch; something that she'd taken for poor circulation when she'd touched his hands.

"What's the matter?"

"You're so cold."

"What? Oh. No; not at all. Different physiology, you see. Normal body temperature of a Time Lord is around sixteen degrees Celsius. The difference becomes more apparent when I'm injured."

"Interesting," Fiona said. What she was actually thinking was closer to 'weird', but it seemed rude to say so. "We need to know more about your wounds," she told him, deciding not to tell him the full extent of her concern. "Is it all right if I do it, or would you rather Michael?"

"Makes no matter either way."

"If I do something that hurts you, don't hesitate to say so."

Downstairs, Michael reflected that this was more consideration than he usually got. But then again, their relationship was... different.

With the Doctor's coat and jacket already removed, it was easy enough to access his shirt and unbutton it. Removing it, however, was a matter of some difficulty. Sitting up for any length of time was a strain, and when Fiona was through, he collapsed back against the pillows she'd put behind him. "Such rubbish," he muttered.

"Sorry?" Fiona asked. When she didn't receive an answer, she drew her own conclusion. "You're not used to accepting help, are you?"

"That's not it."

"Pain," Fiona said carefully, thinking of the mysterious Rose, "can make us reckless."

"Pain. You mean this?"

"No; I meant before. You're grieving."

"It was carelessness," the Doctor replied, avoiding too direct an answer. "And I know better."

"Maybe, but that doesn't really matter, does it?" Fiona started to say something else, then laughed. "I'm sorry," she apologized, when she saw his curious look. "It's just... I was about to say that you're only human." She smiled and shrugged, looking sheepish.

Michael smiled to himself as he heard the exchange. The Doctor couldn't know that Fi was being somewhat silly for his benefit. She'd clearly recognised that she'd discomfited him, and now set about trying to repair the damage without drawing attention to the fact.

"Well," the Doctor said, giving the word far more 'e's than was typical. Oddly enough, it was possible to tell by the sound of his voice that he had smiled at her; no harm done.

"I need to see your back," Fiona told him. "Do you think you can roll over?"

The Doctor wasn't quite quick enough to hide the grimace that briefly passed over his features like a shadow-though she couldn't blame him. Dark bruising mottled most of his upper body, and wherever bone was close to the surface, the skin had split. But despite his brief hesitation, he didn't argue. "I can manage."

It wasn't long after that Michael heard Fiona call for him, saying that she needed him. He didn't bother to answer, just hurried up the stairs. Something in her voice made him wary. "What is it, Fi?" he asked, as he reached the top.

The first aide kit that Michael had used earlier was open on the bed. The sharp scent of isopropyl alcohol was on the air, and he could see a discarded cloth on the floor. "I've found something, Michael," she said, and he followed her gaze.


	4. Chapter 4

_You can tell a lot about a person's assailants by the way they've been beaten. An amateur will usually spend too much time hitting someone in the face. That's a good way to break your hand. Someone more experienced is going to focus on the torso. You can inflict a lot of pain and damage at little risk to yourself. Likewise, using a baseball bat is pretty much for the movies, unless you want to risk killing your target. You can accomplish a lot with just a well-wrapped fist, if you know what you're doing._

Because of all the bruising, it took Michael a moment to see what she meant-all the more because it was hidden inside of a bruise. Just a small mark, only a few millimetres in diameter.

"Metal," Fiona confirmed. "I think part of the dart is lodged in his back."

"Can you get it out?"

"I can, but..." Unsaid; without knowing the length of the dart, they couldn't know how deep it went, let alone if it was barbed.

"She's afraid I'll fight," the Doctor said. "Can't say as I blame her."

"Do you trust me?" Michael asked.

"Rather have to at this point, don't I? But yes, I do."

"Good." Michael crouched down beside the bed, and took the Doctor's wrists in a firm grip. "Do you want something to bite down on?"

The Time Lord shook his head. He didn't want to say so, but given the way his jaw ached, he very much doubted that he could bite down hard enough to make any kind of difference.

Michael nodded, and looked back up at Fiona. "Whenever you're ready."

"I have to make a small incision," she said calmly, as she re-cleaned the area. "This is going to hurt, but I'll try to be quick." For nothing would she have admitted that she was somewhat anxious. She already knew of two differences between their races, and hoped she wouldn't discover a third as she worked.

Michael wasn't exactly sure what to expect, but he wasn't surprised when the Doctor jerked at the touch of the blade. He tightened his own grip, but noted that the Time Lord seemed to turn most of what he felt inward. His hands were tightly fisted, his eyes squeezed shut; Michael could feel the strain. But he didn't move enough to endanger himself, or to make things more difficult for Fiona. She was working with the tweezers now, and Michael winced at his own memory of how that felt.

"I've got hold of it," Fiona said, after an interminable moment of strained silence. "I just need to draw it out."

This, Michael knew, was actually the most crucial part. If the dart was barbed, they would find out about it now. He just hoped that the pressure of the tweezers wouldn't cause it to fracture, or do anything else unforeseen.

Because of the threat of the unknown, Fiona had to go more slowly than she would have liked. Even though the sides of the shaft appeared smooth, she couldn't see the end. She found herself grateful for the angle that it had gone in at, because an inch had been withdrawn already. More blood welled up as she worked, but that was unsurprising. "I'm sorry," she apologized uselessly.

Michael could see the Doctor's expression from where he crouched. "He knows, Fi," he told her. He doubted that the words were comfort, anymore than hers had been.

"Done!" she cried triumphantly, dropping the dart shaft into a tiny bowl she'd taken for the purpose.

The Doctor gratefully collapsed, shuddering as he tried to catch his breath. Any particularly deep one caused him to wince. Michael had made certain that he had no serious fractures, but cracked ribs were not out of the question... which could lead to certain complications.

"Humour me," Michael began. "Your lungs; are they like a human's?"

"Not precisely," he winced. "Why?"

"Because I think some of your ribs are cracked. We should get you over onto your back."

The Doctor groaned but didn't argue. He accepted the help offered, but even with it, initially struggled for breath once he was on his back again. He opened his eyes briefly when he felt Fiona's hand on his cheek, managed a weak smile for her, and lost consciousness again.

"Do you want to stay with him, Fi?" Michael asked.

She shook her head. "No; there's nothing more I can do for him." She sighed as she got to her feet. "Let's get this thing down to Sam, and see what he thinks."

Given that he'd likely heard her, it was no surprise that Sam was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. He took the dish from Fiona, started for the sink, and then shook his head. "There might be something on it besides his blood," he said, sitting the dish down on the counter. Without touching it, he continued to study it. The shaft was a few millimetres in diameter, and about five centimetres long. One end was solid; the other, open. "No point," Sam noted. "How deep was it?"

"Nearly all the way," Fiona answered, "but at a slight angle."

"Still would have taken a lot of force," Sam said, half to himself. "This doesn't show any signs of having the usual injecting mechanism-but what the hell, doesn't seem like they used any of the normal tranquilizing agents, either."

Michael shrugged. "We don't even know if they'd affect him. Of course, UNIT probably already knows that, so they'd have used something tailored to the purpose."

"Was he shot before or after they jumped him?"

"I don't know," Michael admitted.

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. "C'mon, Mikey. You can do better than this-you've **got** to do better than this."

Fiona glared at him. "Sam, do you really think this is all some elaborate trap to catch Michael?"

"Do you really think it **couldn't** be?" He countered.

"All right; it could be," Michael conceded. "But with the amount of information that I've found, they would have needed years to set this up-possibly longer than it took them to burn me."

"And how do you explain his two hearts?" Fiona asked.

"Some sort of an implant," Sam replied without hesitation.

"That actually circulates blood? Because he has a double pulse, Sam. I don't know of any way to fake that."

Sam threw up his hands. "Would you listen to yourselves? This is **exactly** the kind of thing I'm talking about! This guy comes from outta nowhere, Mike takes him in, and now you're tryin' to take care of him. What is going on?"

He never got an answer-or perhaps what happened was his answer, because at that moment the door exploded inward with a thunderous crash. All three of them hit the floor, each going for a gun.

As the dust settled, there came the sound of footsteps and firearms being readied.


	5. Chapter 5

"Lay down your weapons!" A British-accented voice instructed. "We are armed and prepared to use force if necessary. Surrender the Doctor, and you won't be harmed. This is your only warning."

"Pretty sure that violates UN policy, yeah?" A voice came from somewhere above. "Oh, right; you lot aren't to be associated with them anymore, are you?"

Behind the counter, Michael and Fiona exchanged disbelieving looks.

"Either way, it is a **serious** breech of hospitality and good manners. Fine representatives of the British nation, you are. Ought to be ashamed."

Michael cast a glance upwards. The Doctor was standing on the upper level, by all appearances leaning casually on the railing. His seemed unfazed by the group of armed men standing in the room below, and he never once gave away Michael, Fiona, or Sam by looking in their directions.

The youngest looking of the soldiers-the one who had the most to prove, Michael thought-brought up a large gun that looked as though it belonged on the set of a science fiction movie; all the more so when it fired what seemed to be a bolt of raw electricity. It hit the Doctor square in the chest; he cried out and staggered backwards. But once the stream stopped, he pulled himself upright, breathing hard.

"Wasn't very polite, that," he said in a scolding tone. "You knew it wouldn't kill me."

"And your friends?" the same solider asked.

"Enough," said the Doctor, his voice going hard and cold. "I'm the one you're here for; you'll leave them be."

"Is that so?"

By way of answer, the Doctor raised the flashlight that Fiona had earlier taken from his pocket and aimed it at the soldiers.

"You can't hurt us with that," the young soldier scoffed-and Michael found himself agreeing.

"You're right," the Doctor admitted. "However..." A slight twist of his fingers, then a press of a button, and the 'flashlight' made a peculiar noise as brilliant blue light shone from the end. "Now, then. Your weapons won't work; theirs do. Should teach you better than to nick bits from Torchwood!"

Fiona clearly took this on faith; she immediately stood up with her gun levelled. "I'm willing to test the theory," she told them. "How about you?" Her attention was particularly fixed on one of the soldiers in the back; he'd started to move his hand towards his sidearm. Noticing her intent stare, he quickly whipped his hand away.

Michael stood up as well, surveying the room as he did so-to his surprise, there were only four soldiers. He made a subtle gesture below the level of the counter, telling Sam to stay down. "You boys are breaking an awful lot of rules," he noted. "Not announcing your presence, not identifying yourselves, shooting an unarmed man... Let me guess. This visit hasn't been sanctioned by your government, has it? In fact, I'm guessing that UNIT would deny everything, if it came down to it."

"You're making a mistake," the apparent leader told him, though something in his eyes said that Michael had struck a nerve. Despite the fact that all four soldiers were likely high in rank-who else to deal with someone like the Doctor?-this man carried an air of experience that the others did not. "We tried to reason with you-"

"Tried to bribe me, you mean," Michael answered. "That was your first mistake. Breaking in here was the second. You probably don't want to make a third."

"Three strikes; you're out," Fiona said with a wicked grin.

"You don't know who you're dealing with, Mr. Westen-"

"Oi!" The Doctor exclaimed. "Westen? As in **the** Michael Westen? Of course you are. Brilliant! I should've seen it!" He looked back at the members of UNIT. "You chaps best back off, then. It's you what doesn't understand who you're dealing with."

The leader shook his head. "I'm sorry it has to be this way. It's not too late to surrender, Doctor. I understand you're no fan of collateral damage."

The Doctor hesitated, and Michael jumped in.

"What are you going to do to him?" He asked.

"That information is classified."

"Even to **him**?" Michael countered. "No deal; the Doctor stays with us. Your time's up-get out."

"Very well, but we will be back."

Fiona smiled. "And we'll be ready for you."

Michael hoped that it didn't show on his face, but he was actually surprised when the team from UNIT gave up so easily. His next thought, of course, was that they hadn't actually. "We need to get moving," he said, holstering his gun. "Sam, drive by my Mom's place; make sure no one's watching the house."

"On it, Mike," he replied, already on his way out the door.

Michael continued. "Fi, I hate to ask-but would you pack for me?" Of course, he didn't simply mean clothes, and he knew she'd understand that.

She nodded. "Where will you be?"

"Not sure yet; I'll call you when I've got a secure location." He started up the stairs, but turned back when Fiona called his name. "What's the matter?"

"The dart shaft-it's gone!"

"Damn!" Michael swore, banging a fist on the railing in frustration. "They must have grabbed it when they first broke in. So much for getting a tox screen done."

"Probably better not to have done," the Doctor said wearily. He was kneeling where he had stood only moments before, one arm flung over the railing-probably to keep himself from collapsing entirely.

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, hurriedly climbing up to him.

"There was some of my blood on it, wasn't there? Fine job you'd have explaining that."

"I have... friends, who wouldn't ask questions," Michael answered. "I'd rather know what they've done to you."

"Shot me, beaten me, invaded your home-and oh yes, shot me again." The Doctor slumped sideways so that he was sitting on the floor, still leaning against the railing. "You'd have done better to let me go with them, you know." He shut his eyes, mouth slightly open as he breathed.

"Let me ask you something," Michael said. "If our situations were reversed, would you have let me give myself up to them?"

The Doctor managed to look indignant. "'Course not!"

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Michael crouched down, determining the best way to help the man to his feet. "Now, c'mon. We need to get you out of here."

The Time Lord stared at him, recognising the man's relentless determination as a match for his own. But where **was** his own? How Rose would chide him-

Rose. The pain of losing her easily eclipsed any other that he was feeling. It made him want to give up, but at the same time was the reason that he could **not** give up. She'd expect more of him, better of him... and she would have been right to do so. He allowed Michael to help him to his feet, dismayed to find that he truly needed the assistance. What little energy he had summoned up for the confrontation had gone, and he feared that he was worse off than before. "What now?" He asked in a strained voice.

"We move. I should have realized that they'd track me down; they have my name." Michael glanced sideways at the Doctor. "By the way; nice distraction."

"What's that?"

"When you 'warned' them about me?"

The Doctor blinked. "It wasn't a distraction. Oh, I mean it was, certainly it was. But I wasn't having you on."

Michael frowned. "I thought that you didn't have any military contacts."

"I don't-well, aside from UNIT, and you've seen how that's worked out."

"Then how do you know about me?" For the first time, Michael wondered if Sam wasn't right.

"I'm a Time Lord," the Doctor replied, as if that explained everything.

_When you're dealing with someone who's in a lot of pain, a good way to distract them is to keep them talking. Unless they're concussed, the questions don't have to be simple-in fact, it's better to find something that they're interested in talking about, so that it holds their attention. And if what they're saying involves you, you'll have the motivation to keep the conversation going._

"What's that got to do with me?" They had reached the bottom of the stairs now, and Michael paused to give his companion a chance to rest. It was also a good strategic position, should one be needed.

"You're fixed."

"Excuse me?"

"I see time differently from you," the Doctor explained. "Which is to say... I **see** time. Certain points; people, places, events, what have you-those things are fixed. They can't be altered. You're one such, and... makes you stand out a fair bit."

"So what, you're saying that everything that happens to me is supposed to happen? That I don't get any choice?"

"Not at all," the Time Lord said, sensing the man's anger. "Your choices are what's important! You have many different futures in front of you-"

"Wait; you can see the future?" Michael asked incredulously.

"Most of them-as well as their potential, the places they could lead," the Doctor answered. "And the past; what happened, what might have or was meant to happen... even what once happened that was later erased."

By this time, the Time Lord was nearly shaking from the strain of standing for so long. But he didn't sit down on the stairs, or even ask for respite. He merely kept his eyes fixed on Michael's, waiting. His difficulties did not go unnoticed, however.

"This is going to be a really involved conversation, isn't it?" Michael asked.

"Probably, yes."

"Then we can finish it later."

The pair crossed the remaining distance to the door fairly quickly, and then Michael shifted the Doctor's weight to the wall. "Wait here," he instructed. "I'm going to do a quick perimeter check and open the gates if everything's clear. Then I'll come back for you."

The Doctor merely nodded, and watched him go. It was one of the few times in his very long life that he was thoroughly out of his depth. He could not recall a time that he'd been so badly hurt, and not been able to regenerate. He didn't know how long it would take for him to heal properly, and that bothered him more than he cared to admit!

The other thing that concerned him was his growing dependence upon Michael. Given his best estimate of the year, the man had enough troubles of his own! But who else was there? Now that he thought about it, he hadn't been entirely honest when he'd said that he had no contacts in London. There was Sarah Jane, of course. He had no doubt that she would take him in and do what she could for him. But he had already disrupted her life once-or twice, depending upon how one viewed their most recent encounter. He was not willing to impose on her again. It wasn't worth dwelling on, not when he still had to deal with the problem at hand.

Or maybe it wasn't a problem, because the most compelling reason to stay was the fact that the TARDIS had brought him here. He couldn't have done; he'd not been thinking coherently, let alone rationally. She must have known that he would find help here, the best available. Certainly, Michael Westen fit the bill. There was nothing to do for it except become another person the ex-spy had helped; another story.

The door opened; Michael glanced at the Doctor and nodded. "It's clear," he said. He didn't add that they needed to hurry; they both understood that, and neither knew if it would be possible.

Stepping outside, the air was both humid and strangely charged. Trusting in Michael's grip on him, the Doctor chanced a look up at the sky. "It's going to storm," he said. "A rather bad one, I think."

"Good," Michael answered. "We can use that to our advantage." He turned sideways, leaning against the railing. It reduced his visibility, but he wanted to keep himself between the Doctor and whoever might be out there. He trusted that his instincts were enough to make up the difference.


	6. Chapter 6

_Everyone knows that you're not supposed to move someone who's badly injured. That's the theory, anyway. In practice, having your client kidnapped or killed can ruin your reputation-along with their day. In a dire situation, all you can really do is minimize the threat and hope for the best._

Once in the Charger, Michael gunned it, leaving the gate open behind them. "Hang on," he ordered. He sped directly towards traffic signalling for a turn, then barrelled across the street-very nearly causing an accident. Unfortunate for the drivers involved, but it suited him just fine. He glanced over at his passenger. The Doctor was pale, but he was still conscious. He also didn't ask any questions, which was just as well; Michael didn't have time to answer them. He had to make sure he lost any potential tails without gaining another, and then blend into traffic in order to get them safely away. At least it wasn't his mother in the car, this time. He didn't think he could take another argument about the Thanksgiving dinners that he'd missed.

It was about an hour before Michael considered it safe enough to start looking for a place to stay. He'd considered driving longer, but he didn't think the Doctor could manage it. The Time Lord was ashen, and he struggled for every breath; each one was slow and deliberate.

Michael's phone rang; he glanced at it before answering it. Fortunately, it was Fiona. "Thanks for taking care of my clothes," he said, as if picking up an earlier conversation.

"No problem," Fiona replied. "There weren't any spots." Which meant that she'd seen no one following her.

"Lucky you! I had a real mess, but it's all cleaned up now."

"Oh, I never doubted that. And you got the package?"

"Yeah. Really should have been put in a box marked 'fragile', but I'm working on it."

"Good. So, I guess we won't be having any jobs for a few days; do you have any recommendations for me?"

"Let's see..." Michael mused. He grabbed a roadmap and opened it near the phone so that the sound of rustling paper carried. "There's a Sea Trade conference going on at the Doubletree Grand."

"Hmm," Fiona replied, sounding disinterested. "Well, if you get anything else, do let me know." Without waiting for an answer, she disconnected.

Michael caught the Doctor's curious glance and shook his head. "Later."

Too tired for a protracted discussion, he simply nodded. But as it happened, 'later' wasn't all that much longer. The Doubletree Grand Hotel was in downtown Miami, adjacent to pretty much everything. Michael found parking that suited his need for security, and cast a careful eye around as he got out of the car.

"Here's how we're going to do this," he said, helping the Doctor to his feet. He pulled one of the Time Lord's arms over his own shoulders, so that he could support his weight and help him keep his balance as they walked. "You're an old friend, who just arrived to see me this morning. While you were waiting for your cab, you got jumped. Airport security got on the scene too late, and you lost all of your bags, everything. You don't want the hassle of a foreign hospital, so I'll be helping you recuperate here."

"Good enough," the Doctor replied. "And I think I'll be able to help with that."

"What, you've got one of those neuralizers from _Men In Black_?" Michael asked with a laugh.

"That's not it exactly, no. Afraid you'll just have to trust me."

The threatening storm finally broke as the two men made their way into the building, and in the Doctor's condition there was nothing for it but to get soaked. This earned them a little more attention than Michael wanted-but it was useful to have the doors opened for them, and people moving aside so that they might get to the desk first.

"Do you have-" the receptionist started, and then broke off, her eyes wide with alarm. "Sir, do you need me to call for an ambulance?"

"Thank you, no; that won't be necessary," the Doctor replied, pulling a black leather wallet out of his coat pocket. Michael recognized it as the pad of paper Fiona had found earlier, and frowned. But the Time Lord continued, oblivious to his concerns. "Much better to keep all this rather hush-hush, you see."

"Oh! Of course, Inspector," the young woman replied.

Self-discipline and training were the only things that kept Michael from staring. _Inspector_?

"Just 'Doctor', if you please," said the Doctor.

"We don't have a reservation," Michael cut in, "but I'd like to get him in as soon as possible-under the circumstances."

"Absolutely," the receptionist replied. "Did you have something specific in mind?"

"A corner suite, if you have it," Michael replied.

"Two bedroom?"

"Please."

The receptionist tore her eyes away from the Doctor and began typing. "I've got it," she said a few moments later, smiling broadly. "We have a corner suite with a view of the bay and the city. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a full kitchen, non-smoking. It's ready now, if you want it."

"We'll take it," Michael answered, hurriedly filling out the required paperwork.

"I can have someone fetch your bags, if you'd like," the receptionist offered.

"No need," the ex-spy answered. "The bas- they took everything."

"Oh, how terrible!" The receptionist exclaimed.

"We'll get it sorted," the Doctor assured her. "Now if you don't mind; which way is your lift?"

"Our...? Oh! How silly of me. The elevator is right over there. And if you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."

With the final pleasantries taken care of, they were finally able to make their escape. Fortunately, they had the elevator to themselves, and the Doctor slumped gratefully against the wall.

"I've gotta know; what did you show her?" Michael asked.

The Time Lord gave him a weary smile. "Just this," he replied, pulling out the wallet.

"That's a blank piece of paper."

"Close; it's actually psychic paper. Whoever I show it to sees exactly what I want them to see-or what they need to see. That young lady, for instance, thinks I'm an inspector with Scotland Yard. Between that and what I said to her, she'll likely put off anyone who comes 'round asking too many questions."

"Smart," Michael agreed. "But it still looks blank, to me."

"Only because you've already seen it. Oh, sure, I could probably force you to see what I wanted you to, but it wouldn't be easy-you've a strong mind. Hardly worth the effort."

Michael stared at him for a moment. He couldn't decide if he was more disturbed by what he had just been told, or because he had no reason to doubt the man. He was saved thinking about it further by the chime of the elevator informing him that they had reached their floor. Michael left the Doctor where he was and leaned out of the open doors, looking up and down the halls. "Clear," he said, as he ducked back in.

"Right, then," the Doctor replied as he straightened up. He took a step, winced, and did not complain when Michael stepped in to help him. Though he moved stiffly, his strained breathing was the only sound he made as they walked down the long hallway. As Michael shoved the keycard home in its slot, the Time Lord kept one hand in his pocket, and a watchful eye on the corridor.

The door opened, and Michael turned slightly so as to get his companion into the room first. As soon as they were both in, he shut the door and locked it, then threw the bolt. "Couch?" He asked.

Exhausted, the Doctor only nodded. He suspected that he'd overdone it, but what other choice had there been? His mind started to answer the question, and he determinedly halted that line in its tracks. For him, there was no such thing as not thinking, but at the moment he appreciated the sentiment behind the idea. It was enough to sit on the couch and not embarrass himself by whimpering with pain.

Michael, meanwhile, made a quick search of the suite. The door to the room opened onto the living room, with the private balcony beyond it. The kitchen was on the left; narrow, it was good only for its access to cutlery as impromptu weapons. There were two bedrooms as promised, one on either side, with a bathroom off of each.

Returning to the living room, he found the Doctor still on the couch, watching him.

"Give me your phone," the Time Lord said.

Michael found himself reaching for it automatically, and checked the impulse. "Why?"

"You're worried about them listening in on your calls, aren't you? Maybe tracking you? I can keep them from doing that."

"How?"

The Doctor held up the slim metal object that was not a flashlight. "With this."

"What is it?"

"A sonic screwdriver-my own invention, I might add." He smiled faintly. "S'changed a lot over the years... but then, so have I. I promise you, though, it's more than up to the task. Let's have a look."

Michael shrugged. He went through a lot of phones; one more shouldn't make any difference. He handed it over, and pretended not to notice that the Doctor's hand shook as he accepted it. He watched curiously as his phone was opened. The light on the end of the sonic screwdriver flared blue, and Michael heard the same strange noise as before, if in a slightly different pitch. A moment later his phone had been closed back up and returned to him.

"And there you are," the Doctor said, sounding satisfied. "It's not much; but it's a start, something, anyway..."

Lightning flared and thunder crashed simultaneously; the sound vibrating through their bones even as they blinked against after-images. The Doctor looked towards the doors that led out to the balcony, staring hard. He squinted slightly against the next strobe of lightning, and then nodded to himself. "Storm's normal, at least."

"Don't tell me UNIT can change the weather." Michael thought a moment, then glanced at the Doctor. "Or that you can."

"No, no." The Doctor hesitated, thinking it over. "Well," again with too many 'e's, "not intentionally, anyway. But temporal disturbances, time fluxes, that sort of thing-you know."

Resisting the urge to laugh, Michael shook his head.

"No, I suppose not." The Doctor shut his eyes and let his head fall back. He went so still that for just a second, Michael thought that he'd simply died then and there. He took a cautious step closer.

"Doctor?"

"Forty-two."

"What?"

"Forty-two," the Time Lord repeated. "The answer's always forty-two. Oh, never mind."

Before Michael could respond, there was a sharp rap on the door. He glanced at the Doctor, holding up a cautioning hand, and then moved steadily-silently-towards the door. He didn't draw his weapon, but was ready to as he glanced through the spyhole. He let out a short sigh of relief when he saw that it was only Fiona, and opened the door.


	7. Chapter 7

"Sorry to take so long," she said, coming in quickly so that he could shut the door again. "I thought we could do with a bit more than you asked for. Food, for one." Fiona smiled impishly. "If I left it up to you, we'd have nothing but beer and yoghurt."

"Hey, Sam's the one buying the beer," Michael replied. He took the bags she offered-neither of which was the one with the food-and realized from the weight of one of them that when she'd said she'd brought more than he'd asked for, she'd meant it in more ways than one. He gave her a grateful look before setting it aside.

"I hope Chinese is all right," Fiona said to the Doctor, setting still another bag down on the coffee table. "I don't know what you like, so I bought a little bit of everything. You... can eat our food, can't you?"

"Yes, thanks." He watched with amusement as she spread a fairly vast array of take-away containers across the table.

"What we don't eat will keep," she said, but this was directed at Michael's incredulous expression. "And it's one less trip out we'll have to make."

"We don't even know how long we're staying," Michael pointed out.

"Hopefully for a few days," Fiona countered.

The Doctor looked from one to the other. "I've really put you in a spot, haven't I?"

"If you're about to suggest leaving, forget it," Michael told him. It was really more a matter of them leaving the Doctor-he didn't think that the Time Lord was capable of going far on his own at the moment-but the general idea was the same. "I don't give up on people; I'm not giving up on you."

"No, you don't, do you." It wasn't really a question. Wearily, the Doctor rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry."

Fiona sat down beside him, and placed a light hand on his arm. "You've nothing to be sorry for," she replied. "Would you expect any of us to just lay down and die for them? Would you accept it, if they were going after any of us?"

The Doctor cocked his head to the side as he studied her. "And when you say 'us'... you mean the entire human race, don't you?"

"I do. What was it you said? 'When you talk of Earth, make sure you tell them this: it is defended.'"

The Doctor stared at her in shock. "How did you...?"

Fiona smiled. "I did my homework. The British government tried to cover it up, but if you know where to look..." She smiled again and shrugged, looking pleased with herself.

Michael gestured with one hand; pointing at her and then back to himself, his meaning plain: _we're going to talk, later_.

"Anyway," Fiona continued, "the food's getting cold. You both need to eat."

"You're right," the Doctor conceded. He shifted his weight preparatory to moving forward-but before he could, Fiona lay a hand on his shoulder, restraining him with merely a touch.

"Oh no you don't," she scolded gently. She picked a carton from the table at random and passed it to him. "Fork or chopsticks?"

"Chopsticks," he answered, then looked at his hands, flexing them gingerly. "I think."

Fiona wasn't about to question his initial judgment, and passed him chopsticks without further comment-though she kept an eye on where the nearest fork was, just in case.

Michael let a few minutes pass before he started the conversation again. He wasn't sure that the questions he needed to ask would be welcome, but Sam had raised a valid point. "When I asked you before why they'd done this, you said that you couldn't remember." He felt Fiona's eyes on him, and ignored her. "What **do** you remember?"

The Doctor frowned slightly, laying his chopsticks down. "That's a very good question," he said. He didn't seem unwilling to answer so much as unable to. "Think!" He whispered, apparently to himself.

"Do you remember where you were?" Fiona asked.

"London," he answered without hesitation.

Michael and Fiona exchanged a glance.

"When did it happen?" She continued.

"Ah, that's a tricky one, innit? Because there's when, and then there's **when**."

"What do you mean?" Michael asked.

"Well, when is when it happened to me; **when** is when it happened."

"There's a difference?"

"'Course. Happened a bit more than a few hours ago, right?"

"A few **hours**?" Fiona asked. She looked at Michael. "You saw his wounds-"

"And you're seeing them now. He's right, Fi; they're not that old." Michael looked at the Doctor. "But it takes at least nine hours to get from London to Miami."

"Concussion?" Fiona asked. "He did keep losing consciousness."

"Hello, he's sitting right in front of you," the Doctor remarked dryly. "But as you will; my name is the Doctor and last I checked, the date was July 2006. 'Fraid I can't give you the exact day; I've lost track." He noticed the two of them staring at him. "What? What'd I say?"

"Two thousand and six?" Fiona repeated. "Michael..."

Michael looked at the Doctor. "First of all," he said carefully, "it's August. Two thousand and **eight**."

To their surprise, the Doctor didn't seem disturbed by the news. "I wonder why she did that?" He mused.

"She?" Michael asked.

"The TARDIS; my ship." He looked from one to the other, waiting for some kind of recognition. "Time Lord?" he prompted. When that didn't get a reaction, he sighed. "TARDIS stands for **T**ime **A**nd **R**elative **D**imension(s) **I**n **S**pace. Which means, she can travel through time as well as space. I can only assume that she brought me here- well, for two reasons. One; she clearly thought that I needed **you**, and two... could be she wanted me well away from UNIT. Too bad that didn't work out. Suppose they have standing orders to the effect. Bother."

"So your ship is... female?" Fiona asked.

"Well, I say she is," the Doctor admitted. "Affectation I picked up from you lot, as happens."

"But you don't actually know."

"It's not that, so much. That is to say, she's sentient, but not as you'd understand it. Usually, I've more of a say in where we're going and the like. But it's not the first time she's taken steps to save my life; good old girl."

Michael took this all in silently, considering. He knew that he could question the Doctor further, but for how long? Time Lord or not, there had to be a limit to his reserves. Better to follow his original train of thought-the information could help them both. "Do you remember being shot?"

"Yes," the Doctor said slowly, "but I'm not certain I knew it at the time. There was just this great pain in my back-I went down to my knees, I think." He frowned, thinking. "All my fault, really. Wasn't being careful enough, watchful enough. Shouldn't have happened at all."

"What happened next?" Michael prompted. "Did you make it back to your ship?"

"Must have done, if I'm here... it's all... bit of a blank, really. I think I was close when they chanced on me."

"How many?"

"Two. Maybe three. I was having trouble standing, and one of them grabbed me by the arms, held me. I fought, but..." He shook his head and looked away from them, clearly embarrassed. "After awhile, I couldn't stand at all. Eventually they got tired of it, let me go. One of them kicked me," the Doctor traced his right cheekbone with two fingers, "here."

"What then?"

"I reached the TARDIS somehow; I don't remember it, but I remember reaching for the door, you see. And then... nothing."

"Not even me?"

"How do you mean?"

"When I first saw you, I was getting out of my car. How did you know me, where to find me?"

The Doctor shook his head. "I don't know," he said apologetically. "I don't remember."

"Not even what you said to me?"

"No, sorry."

"That's enough, Michael," Fiona cautioned.

He nodded his agreement; he too could see that the Time Lord's strength was starting to fail. "You should try and get some sleep," he said. "I'll give you something for the pain-"

"No!" The Doctor exclaimed urgently. "You can't-you mustn't, not ever. Even something as simple as your aspirin; that's poison to me."

And there it was, yet another reminder that the man in front of him wasn't human. It was easy to forget.

"Is there anything we can do?" Fiona asked.

"I just need time." But even as the Doctor spoke, his expression was troubled. Thunder rumbled, and he watched lightning play across the sky. He held up his hand, almost as if studying it. "Should get cleaned up, shouldn't I?" He mused, but it was hard to say if he was talking to himself or to them.

"You and Michael are about the same size," Fiona began.

The Doctor glanced at Michael, who nodded his assent. "When you're done, I'd like to take another look at your injuries, make sure I didn't miss anything." _Else_, he added silently, thinking of the dart.

"Can do," the Doctor said, wearily pulling himself to his feet. He staggered, and caught himself with difficulty. He stood with head and shoulders bowed, eyes closed. His hands were taut with the strain, and each breath came slowly and deliberately.

Fiona started to go to him, but Michael shook his head. He recognized the posture, having used it a time or two himself. To that end, he pretended to focus on his dinner, while watching the Doctor out of the corner of his eye.

Once he was gone, Fiona turned on him. "He needed help!" She half-whispered, glaring angrily.

"No, Fi. He needed to do it for himself. Maybe just to know that he still can."

"Men," she said, sounding disgusted. "No matter what planet you're from, you're all the same. Stubborn."

Quite without meaning to, Michael laughed.

"What?" Fiona demanded.

"What you just said. 'No matter what planet'... Y'know, I really didn't think anything could surprise me anymore. What planet."

Fiona tried to fight down a smile, wanting to stay annoyed, but ended up giggling with a hand over her mouth instead.

_Sometimes, laughter in the middle of a desperate situation is a sign of pending hysteria. But sometimes, all it really means is that you just need a laugh._


	8. Chapter 8

The water ran for a long time, and Michael almost unconsciously adjusted his hearing to listen for the sound of a body hitting the floor. Fortunately, it never came. The movement in the room behind the closed door went on for some time longer; Michael kept listening. When all had been silent for several minutes, he knocked lightly on the door and stepped inside.

The Doctor was lying on the bed, and opened his eyes as Michael came into the room. He had dressed in such a way as to allow access to his injuries; for the moment, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants. Washing away all the blood had produced an oddly mixed result; its absence served to show how numerous-and in some cases severe-his wounds actually were.

"Better?" Michael asked.

"Bit," the Doctor agreed, wincing as he pushed himself into a sitting position. "The reasoning was more psychological, I suppose," he added after a moment.

"But it only helped the physical," Michael guessed.

"Difficult to say," the Doctor answered after a moment's thought. "Not the first time I've got myself into trouble; in a life this long, that'd be saying something! Not even the first time I've been betrayed-and who, really, can say that's never happened to them? No, it's not that. But it is different."

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid." The words came in a sudden rush. "They've done something to me, and... for all my knowledge, I don't know what it is. They've hurt me, **really** hurt me, and I can't fix it. Can't stop it. I haven't any idea what to do, and that's so... so frustrating, is what it is!"

"You said your... TARDIS?... brought you to me for some purpose," Michael reminded him. "So let's just assume that's part of the reason why-because if it was just to treat your wounds, I'm sure you could do better than some field dressings."

"No room or reason to argue with you," the Doctor answered. "Wait; no rhyme or reason, that's what it was. Whichever, no matter-amounts to the same, doesn't it?"

Michael just shook his head. The guy didn't exactly have optimism-unless there was such a thing as manic optimism-but there was a sort of relentless determination that he couldn't help but admire. "Ready for me to take a look?" He asked.

"As can be."

Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, eyes roving over the various open cuts. "Any of these start to bleed when you washed them off?"

"Few; the deeper ones. Expect that's normal, eh?"

Michael nodded. "You're healing slowly, but you **are** healing," he said after a moment. He glanced up. "I'm assuming your blood clots like ours does," he added.

"More or less, if a bit faster-usually."

"Without a basis for comparison, I can't say how much the process has slowed down. By tomorrow, I'll know how you're doing by human standards."

"Better than nothing."

"Quite," Michael said, this time imitating the man's accent.

The Doctor laughed. "Oh, that's good. Very good."

"Next thing is to check your ribs. It's the right side that's worse, isn't it?"

The Doctor nodded. He forced himself to hold still as Michael ran light fingers across his side, but winced as he approached his sternum.

"Take as deep a breath as you can," Michael instructed. He kept his eyes on the Time Lord's face, and was not surprised when he bared his teeth in a grimace. "Sharp pain?"

"Yes."

"I think my initial assessment was right; they're just cracked, not broken. Not much consolation, but at least you shouldn't have to worry about a splinter breaking away and causing more damage."

"I'm grateful for small mercies."

"I'll give you another one. If you can sit up, I can check the incision Fi made in your back, without you having to roll over."

"Done," said the Doctor, though it wasn't quite so easy.

Michael frowned as he studied the wound; even at an angle, it was a fairly deep puncture. Already, he suspected infection. "I'm going to have to clean this again," he cautioned.

"Read as, 'this is going to hurt'. Understood."

"Anything I should know about, first?" Michael asked, thinking of his earlier offer of painkillers.

"If you're asking if you'll harm me further, the answer is no."

"Good. If I could spare you this..."

"Nothing to be done for it," the Doctor answered nonchalantly, but Michael noticed his hands balling into fists.

"First thing I'm going to do is apply pressure to either side of the incision; that should cause it to bleed out." Even as Michael spoke, he was carrying out the actions. He used a gauze pad to wipe up the blood-thinking in a distracted sort of way that he was glad that aside from being slightly darker, it **appeared** human, so that the discards wouldn't raise any questions. "Next part's probably going to be worse," he said bluntly. "I need to irrigate the wound. Could be there was something clinging to the outside of the dart that Fiona missed."

The Doctor only nodded, as if not trusting himself to speak.

"Just keep breathing." Which was not, he reflected, the kindest thing to say to someone with cracked ribs.

_Whether you're field dressing a wound or simply removing a splinter from someone's finger, it's best to focus only on the task at hand. If you pay too much attention to your patient, you start to notice their pain-and that can make you hesitate. Doing the job slowly isn't kindness; it only prolongs their suffering._

A few minutes later, Michael carefully smoothed a fresh bandage into place-recalling all too well Nate's careless slap on his back immediately after he'd removed a bullet. "Done," he said, and could actually see some of the tension leave the Doctor's body.

"Thank you," he said, and even managed to sound sincere.

"You should probably try to get some sleep," Michael suggested.

"Can't argue that; may even help."

Michael nodded and left the room to give him some privacy. Going back into the living room, he found Fiona waiting.

"How is he?" she asked.

"I wish I knew," Michael answered, sitting down on the couch. "What I'm seeing tells me one thing; what he says tells me another-and none of them match up. Oh, and the incision on his back is getting infected." He frowned, sighed, then looked at her. "Fi, what do you know about him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Earlier, you said something; that quote about the Earth being defended. That surprised him. Where did you get that?"

"Here and there," Fiona said. Seeing the look he gave her, she hastily continued. "I'm not being facetious, Michael! There are stories about the Doctor all over; some are buried in government files, others are on the internet."

"The internet?"

"Please; what isn't, these days? But most of those sites are pretty well hidden-from what I can tell, when they're found by someone official, they're shut down. If various agencies agree on anything, it's that they don't want people knowing about him."

"Do you think this was a failed assassination attempt?" Michael thought about some of the things that the Doctor had said. "Or maybe it hasn't failed, and they're just killing him slowly."

"I think it's more likely a failed abduction. If they really wanted him dead, they could have killed him back at the loft." Falling silent, Fiona frowned.

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that, too. It shouldn't have been that easy."

"Do you think they're able to track him?"

"That might be what the dart was for," Michael said, pulling it out of his pocket and studying it. "Looks like it's been deactivated. Fi... would you trust Seymour with something like this?"

"Trust him? Not exactly. But he is afraid of you, and I can't think of anyone better to go to."

"All right. Do me a favour and get this to him tonight. UNIT already has one part of it; if they come at us again, they might try to make a clean sweep and take this, too."

Fiona accepted the dart and tucked it away. "I'll leave now," she said.

"Be careful," he told her seriously.

"Don't worry," she answered as she opened the door-and jumped back with a little cry of surprise. "**Sam**?" She asked disbelievingly a moment later. "Don't you know how to knock?"

"I was about to," he remarked dryly. "Mike-"

"Michael," a familiar voice cut in, "what is going on?" Without waiting for an answer, Madeline pushed her way past Sam into the suite. "**Why** has he been lurking outside of my house all afternoon? The girls from the poker game thought he was some kind of stalker, and I had to make up an excuse!"

"Mom-"

"And don't give me some crazy story, either. I want to know the truth!"

"All right, fine," Michael said with exaggerated patience. "A friend of mine was hurt, and I'm staying with him while he recovers."

"Of course you are."

Michael threw up his hands and looked at the ceiling. "Why do I even bother?" He asked no one in particular.


	9. Chapter 9

"Michael?" a British-accented voice asked. "Is everything all right?" The Doctor stood in the doorway to the bedroom. He'd dressed in haste; now wearing an untucked white button-down shirt and a pair of Michael's jeans, no shoes or socks. His spiky hair stood out all directions, but it would be difficult to say if that was a matter of style or the fact that he'd just gotten out of bed. Either way, between the clothing and his injuries, the end result served to make him appear both young and vulnerable. "Oh!" He exclaimed, seeing Madeline. "Do beg your pardon, Marm." He ran a hand through his hair and made a futile attempt at straightening his shirt.

Madeline looked between the Doctor and Michael. "So you really are staying with someone," she said, almost to herself. And then more audibly, "Well? Aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Of course," Michael said, resigned. "May I present my mother, Madeline Westen. Mom, this is the Doctor."

"Doctor...?"

"Smith," the Doctor replied, before Michael could say anything. "Dr John Smith. I must say, I owe your son a tremendous debt of gratitude."

One of Madeline's hands fluttered nervously to her mouth. "Oh my. What **happened**?"

Michael glanced at the Doctor. "You should probably sit down," he advised.

"No argument there," the Time Lord replied with a wince that he couldn't quite hide. He made his way to the couch that he had so recently vacated, and eased himself down onto it.

Fiona touched Michael's arm. "I've..."

He nodded. "Go," he said simply, and then turned his attention back to the conversation that was now taking place.

"Where are you from?" Madeline was asking.

Sam made a muttered comment that contained the word "alien", and Michael widened his eyes as he glared ferociously at his friend.

Madeline didn't seem to notice, but she gave Sam a scolding glance of her own. "The proper term," she said loftily, " is 'foreign national'." She looked back at the Doctor. "Never mind him. Where are you from?"

"Most recently, London. I travel quite a lot."

"And what are you a doctor of?"

Michael found himself holding his breath. The wrong answer here...

"Physics," the Doctor replied. "Received my degree in Glasgow."

"Oh, that's lovely," Madeline said in a tone of voice that indicated she'd already lost interest. "How long will you be here?"

"Remains to be seen, that."

"And what did you say happened?"

"Ah, didn't, actually."

"He was jumped at the airport," Michael answered.

"What about security?"

"Probably busy searching people in baggy clothing."

"It was rather bold of me," the Doctor cut in, "but I imposed upon Michael for a spot of help. He was gracious enough to oblige."

Madeline looked at her son. "So **why** was Sam lurking outside my house?"

"It's like I told ya," Sam replied. "I was just checkin' up."

Madeline appeared unconvinced.

"Right, then," the Doctor said awkwardly, looking down briefly at his fingers which were toying at the hem of his borrowed shirt. "It's like this. As the young lady downstairs will tell you, I'm an Inspector with Scotland Yard."

"I thought you said you were a doctor!"

"I am. We can wear two hats, Marm." A bright smile disarmed what could have been a rather snarky comment. But it faded and he looked at her with serious brown eyes. "I'm afraid I can only ask your pardon," he went on. "If what happened was merely random chance, then no harm done-well, save me. But if not... I don't want to put Michael, or those closest to him, in any kind of danger."

Madeline's expression softened. "You poor man," she said sympathetically.

Behind her, Michael stared. If he'd tried the same story, he'd never have heard the end of it! He caught Sam rolling his eyes, and couldn't really blame him. But better that it had worked. "Are you satisfied, Mom?" He asked.

"What? Oh, yes. I'm sorry, Michael, it's just that..." She trailed off, wearing a pitiable expression.

Michael restrained a sigh **and** the urge to roll his eyes. "I know, Mom. I'm sorry."

Madeline looked back at the Doctor. "You really need your rest," she said. "I'll just get going. But if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask." She got to her feet and looked around for Sam. "All right," she told him, "we can go."

"You got it," he replied, showing no trace of exasperation. "Back in awhile, Mikey," he added, as he closed the door behind them.

"'John Smith'?" Michael asked incredulously.

The Doctor shrugged. "It's a perfectly good name."

"Yeah, except it **sounds** like a pseudonym."

"Which is why it's so brilliant! A chap hears that, thinks 'no, can't be, he must be having me on'; and in the next he's decided that it's so obvious, it can't possibly be a false name, because who'd be daft enough to use something like that?"

"You have a point," Michael conceded. "But why...?" He didn't precisely know how to ask the question.

"Well," the Doctor said slowly, "that's your mum, innit?" It seemed to be all the explanation he required.

"Thank you," Michael told him after a moment.

The Doctor nodded. He leaned back against the couch, shutting his eyes. Once again, the frenzied energy had gone as quickly as it had come.

"If you sleep there," Michael told him, "you're probably going to wake up very sore in the morning."

"You're likely right about that," the Doctor agreed without opening his eyes. He sighed and actually lifted a hand to his left eye to mimic pulling it open with a finger. "There we go. Once there's been a start, that's something to build on."

Michael offered him a hand, and once it had been accepted, pulled the Doctor to his feet. He'd half been expecting the man to stagger, and so was able to support him when he actually did so. "It's not far," he said, while part of his mind distractedly wondered if he wished Fiona were here or not. She'd hate to see the Doctor suffering, but she was certainly better suited to the whole nursing aspect. Yet despite his misgivings, Michael found that even once he had the Time Lord safely in his own bed, he couldn't just walk away.

_When your job is to protect someone, you can't afford to become too attached. Strong emotions can override common sense; you find yourself making irrational decisions based on your feelings, rather than what's tactically practical. Thanks to Hollywood, a romantic liaison between a bodyguard and his client have pretty much become cliché. But the fact is, __**anyone**__ can become strongly attached to the person whose life they're protecting-a man who is willing to die to protect a child, for example. Since you're unlikely to be able to do anything about this attachment, the most you can do is to remind yourself of it constantly, in an attempt to keep it from clouding your judgment._

After a few moments of indecision, Michael finally went to the living room and retrieved the bag that Fiona had left for him. It was quite large, and she'd made use of every bit of available space. A small army would not be left wanting, whether they wanted to outlast a siege or conduct a hostile takeover. Given how little they knew about UNIT and their resources, he figured that was appropriate. He spent some time sorting it out on his bed, making a detailed inventory in his head. When he was satisfied that he could recall every last piece at need, he packed it away again, in an order that would bring any item quickly to hand.

As he finished, he heard the faint buzz of the main door's lock disengaging, followed by the click of it opening. He was on his feet without even thinking about it, one hand already on his gun. He allowed himself a quick glance at the Doctor-still asleep-and killed the lights before making his way out of the room.

It had gotten dark while he'd sat on the bed sorting his small arsenal, and now Michael used that darkness to his advantage. He could see a figure heading for the balcony doors, and increased his pace. With hardly a sound he wrapped an arm around their neck while hauling backward, and pressed his gun into the underside of their jaw. To his surprise, there was no corresponding defensive manoeuvre.

"You can kill me if you want to," Sam said, "but you're gonna have a hell of a time of it on your own."

Michael hissed through his teeth in annoyance and pushed Sam away as he pulled back his gun. "Didn't Fiona say something to you about learning to knock?"

Sam held up a keycard between two fingers. "I sweet-talked this outta the front desk," he replied. "Not that I **needed** a key, but I thought someone ought to try. Security's not that tight around here, Mike."

"That's a problem," Michael agreed, already mulling over how to handle it.

"Where is he?"

"What? Oh-sleeping. Apparently dealing with my mother takes a lot out of him, too." Michael gave Sam a hard look. "And what the **hell** were you thinking, bringing her over here? Don't give me any crap about how she wouldn't leave you alone, either. Never mind that crack about him being an alien."

Sam looked at him almost pityingly. "He is what he is, Mike. You need to remember that."

"Look, I might be making some mistakes here, but that's not one of them."

"No? What about your priorities? I asked you before-what're ya gettin' outta doin' this? You might not always take the money, but at least they offer!"

"Sam, he's a Time Lord. He's got access to information that we couldn't get on our best days; I don't care **who** your contacts are. Who wouldn't want an asset like that?" _Or a friend_.

"You're reaching, Mikey."

Michael narrowed his eyes. "When you asked me about this before, you said my willingness to help people was one of my better qualities. What changed your mind?"

Sam sighed. "I haven't. But this guy, this 'Time Lord', is dangerous. You're risking too much, helpin' him."

"And that's different, how? Sam, he needs me. No one else can do this."

"Fine, you wanna go there? You wanna get sappy? I'll get sappy. **I** need you, Mike. Fiona needs you. Hell, your mother and **Nate** need you!"

Michael rolled his eyes.

"Tell you what-if you want information, hand him over to UNIT. Then they'll owe you."

Michael shook his head. "No. I can't trust anything they tell me now. They've broken into my home, threatened the people that I care about. You. Fiona." He threw his friend's words back into his teeth without hesitation. "Giving them the Doctor won't change that. But it will change me."

"Damn it, Mike..." Sam sighed and looked away. "You got any beer?"

"In the fridge, if Fiona bought any."

Sam headed for the kitchen. "Want one?"

Michael rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. "Yeah." He sat down on the couch, and gratefully accepted the bottle that Sam passed to him. "Thanks."

"No problem. So where's Fi?"

"I asked her to take the dart casing to Seymour."

"I dunno; that guy's trouble, Mike."

"He's all we've got. If we're lucky, he'll have the resources to stay ahead of UNIT."

"Did you tell Fiona to warn him about them?"

Michael shook his head.

"Do you think she will?"

"Doubt it."

Sam gave him an approving look. "Sneaky, Mike, very sneaky. Y'know, the way he over-reacts to everything, he might end up killin' 'em all off. Not a bad idea, really."

"Or they kill him, and we learn nothing," Michael pointed out.

"In which case you're going to have to bail him out again, before that happens," Sam agreed. "But at least **he'll** owe ya."

Michael nodded noncommittally, but said nothing. Sam wisely steered the conversation towards more mundane topics, and eventually the pair found themselves sitting in companionable silence. The storm had passed, leaving a clear night sky adorned with what few stars could be seen above the city of Miami.

"Is Fiona coming back?" Sam asked after awhile.

"Not sure; she didn't say."

"If she's worried about **him**-"

"Then she'll go wherever she thinks she can do him the most good," Michael replied.

Sam nodded. "Want me to stay? You could probably use a second set of eyes."

"If you don't have anything else to do," Michael answered. In truth, he was grateful for the offer, but he was trying to avoid asking Sam to have anything to do with this particular case-given how his old friend felt about the Doctor.

"I'll sleep in here, then."

"Not the other bedroom?"

"Well sure-once you come n' relieve me." Sam grinned. "You've got the dogwatch."


	10. Chapter 10

Despite a half-formed expectation that something would happen during the night, nothing did. At Sam's suggestion, he went back to bed for a couple of hours after dawn had broken. The Doctor was asleep when he came into the room, and was still when Michael finally woke. Aside from sparing him a glance, he paid little attention as he dressed and made his way out to the living room.

"Morning, sleepy," Fiona greeted him. She was curled into a corner of the couch, breakfasting on what looked to be eggs.

"Coffee?" Michael asked hopefully.

"In the kitchen." Fiona watched him, waited another moment, and then asked. "How's the Doctor?"

"Sleeping."

"He hasn't woken up at all?"

Michael shrugged. "Maybe it's part of how he heals," he suggested-though now that she'd called his attention to it, he found himself wondering. What was it the Doctor had said? That he'd been hurt, and couldn't fix it...

"I'm going to check on him," Fiona said, setting her breakfast down on the coffee table. She flicked a hand at Michael when he moved to follow. "I'll call if I need anything."

Michael nodded and turned his attention to his coffee. He didn't actually require it in order to function, but having it was nice.

"Michael?" Fiona was back, looking slightly anxious. "Do we have an electric thermometer?"

"I don't think we have **any** thermometer. Why?"

"He's warm."

Sam, just coming into the kitchen, reached past Michael for the coffee. "So? Tell him to take off a blanket."

Fiona glared at him. "He's not complaining; he's not even awake! But when I laid a hand on his forehead... he's warm to the touch. But I think any reading will be too low for a mercurial thermometer to register."

"Or we're in worse trouble than we think," Michael agreed. "Call the front desk, they might." Taking a last drink of coffee, he set the mug down on the counter and went back to the bedroom.

The Doctor seemed to be asleep, but distressed despite the fact. His eyes would occasionally tighten with pain, and he tossed restlessly. Now and then he would say something, but Michael couldn't make it out... which made him wonder if it was in a language that he'd understand, in any case. He came closer, cautiously reaching out to touch the man's face-ready to pull back in a hurry, if he needed to. Surprisingly, the Time Lord stilled under his hand, though he didn't wake.

"Useless," Fiona said, coming back into the room. "They suggested their private infirmary, but said that if I wasn't interested, there was a hospital nearby." She gave Michael a wry look. "What do you suppose they'd make of him?"

"Lab rat," Michael answered, "at best."

"I'll go out," Fiona decided. "Is there anything else we need?"

"Whatever you think," Michael told her. He sat down on the edge of the bed opposite, watching their 'patient'.

"You're worried," Fiona said quietly.

"If he dies..." Michael wasn't even sure that he'd meant to say it.

"He won't," she replied firmly. "He came to you for help because he knew he could get it."

"Yeah, but did he know this would happen?" Michael sighed.

"If he can see the future," Sam said from the doorway, "why not ask him to tell you how all this ends?"

Michael thought about what little the Doctor had said on the subject. "I don't think it works like that," he answered. "He said he'd explain later."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "If you're about to give me some crap that, 'maybe now he never will', I'm pretty much gonna have to deck ya."

Michael gave him a steady look.

Sam held up both hands. "Just sayin'."

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Boys," she said, and left.

"Got a plan, Mikey?"

His friend nodded, eyes still on the Doctor. "First thing is to find out as much about UNIT as we can."

"Not the Doctor?"

"No; him, I trust." Michael waited to see if there would be further interruption, then continued. "The organization knows about me; we need to find out who they are and what they're doing here. We've got every indication that the team they sent is black ops; let's see what we can dig up. Also, the Doctor mentioned something called 'Torchwood'; I want to know who they are, what they are."

Sam nodded. "I don't have as many foreign contacts, but I can probably call in a few favours."

"Be careful who you talk to."

"Please," Sam scoffed. "Ya don't have to tell **me** that."

"One more thing. We should scout out some local sources, see if any unusual disturbances have been reported."

"'Unusual disturbances'?" Sam echoed. "Mike, this is **Miami**."

"You know what I mean. With this many retirees making up the population, there's got to be UFO watchers somewhere around. If Fi's right, there's information about the Doctor on the internet. I don't want someone else finding the TARDIS before we do."

"Do you even know what we're looking for?"

Looking perplexed, Michael shook his head. "Just see if you can find out anything."

"On it," Sam said, and left.

Michael stared towards the empty doorway for a moment, lost in thought. This was not the only problem that he had to deal with at the moment, but somehow it had become the most compelling. He glanced over at the Doctor, contemplated leaving, then went and got his laptop instead. He had a lot of research to do.

Fiona returned an hour or so later. "I went back to the loft," she explained. "Or near as. I didn't see any surveillance, but that doesn't mean there isn't any."

"Something remote," Michael agreed. "They can't afford to spread themselves too thin. You think they've got any idea where we are?"

"They ought to, after that phonecall, but no."

"Maybe they weren't listening in."

Fiona shrugged, pulling a thermometer out of the bag she'd brought with her. "I hope this works," she said, taking it out of its packaging. "It's supposed to be the fastest and most accurate, but it doesn't say how low it can read." She stared at the instrument in her hands, then carefully placed the tip of it inside his ear. "Always hated these things," she said, as she pressed the button.

There was a sharp click, followed by a beep.

"Did you get a reading?"

"I'm going to take it again," Fiona answered.

"Fi, what is it?"

She didn't answer; there was another click, another beep. She read the result, and lay the back of her hand against the Doctor's forehead.

"Fi," Michael prompted.

"Ninety-three point two; that's Fahrenheit. Celsius-which is how he measures it," she added, as she pressed another button, "-it's thirty-four degrees. That's more than twice what it should be."

"What we don't know is how bad that is," Michael reflected. "Obviously, he's sick. But in a human, an increase like that would be fatal."

Fiona didn't answer, just brushed the Doctor's untidy hair with her fingers. To her great surprise, his eyes opened. They were large and dark, glassy; but they seemed to stare straight at her.

"Rose?" He asked faintly.

Fiona glanced up at Michael with alarmed eyes, then back at the Doctor. "No," she said quietly.

The Doctor didn't seem to hear her. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly, sounding broken-hearted. "I'm so sorry."

Moved by sympathy, Fiona reached out to touch his hand. "Shh," she whispered.

"I had to do it, didn't I?" The Doctor continued. "The Daleks, the Cybermen... they couldn't be allowed to continue, couldn't be allowed to take over." He paused for breath, looking away.

"Doctor..." Fiona began, but she didn't know what to say.

He looked back at her. "If they'd won, you would've died. You, your mum, Mickey... everyone would have died. I would have died. And what's that? Nothing. The last of the Time Lords." His voice had taken on a bitter, mocking tone. "I survived them a first time; I wouldn't have, a second. And so what? If it would destroy them, then **yes**, I would gladly die. But not if it destroyed you, Rose Tyler. I never wanted to lose you, never wanted to leave you. When I said that you could spend the rest of your life with me, I meant it, I swear that I did." The Doctor shut his eyes, his grief so keen as to be physical pain.

For his part, Michael had opened a new document on his laptop and quickly keyed in: _Rose Tyler_. The only other thing he knew for certain was that she lived-had lived?-in London. It wasn't much, but it was a start. After a moment's thought, he added _Cyber Men_ and _Doll-X_ to the list.

"I know you'll not want to hear it," the Doctor continued, "but try to think of this as a second chance. To start again. Don't throw that away." He blinked hard, and tears escaped his eyes. "Try... try to be happy." His voice broke on the last word. "And Rose... ...please forgive me." He was whispering, now. "Please."

With the Doctor's eyes staring so intently into her own, Fiona felt compelled to answer. Distressed, she looked up at Michael. "What do I say?"

"What would you say to me?" He asked quietly. It wasn't a fair question; their relationship was fraught with contention and difficulties. But nevertheless, his reply seemed to help Fiona.

"I forgive you," She whispered, resting her hand on the Doctor's cheek. She'd allowed her Irish accent to become stronger, then blurred it into something more British. "But I need you to rest now, all right? You're ill; we've got to get you better. Will you try to sleep? For me?"

The Doctor didn't have any strength left to object. He nodded, but kept his eyes fixed on her. Fiona held his gaze until he finally drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

"So," she said quietly, "the mysterious Rose isn't dead after all."

Michael frowned, staring at his laptop. "Officially, she is."

"What?"

"Like everything else associated with him, it's half-buried but... Rose Tyler was declared dead by the British government in 2006."

Fiona stared at him. "That's the year he thought it was-or expected it to be." She thought a moment. "He **is** delirious," she reflected. "Do you suppose he's re-writing history?"

"It might not be as simple as that," Michael replied.

"I'm not sure anything to do with him is simple," Fiona agreed. "Shall we ask him about her when he wakes up?"

"I'll leave that to you. Whatever happened to her..." Michael shook his head. "Meanwhile, let's see what we can find out about the other things he mentioned."

"I'm going to see if I can bring his fever down," Fiona told him, getting to her feet.

"Just don't give him anything for it."

"I remember." She left the room, and Michael heard her moving about in the kitchen. When she returned, she had a bowl of water in her hands. She set it on the bedside table, then disappeared into the bathroom for a face-cloth. Once she had sat down again, she glanced over at Michael. "Where's Sam?"

"I sent him out for a little local information gathering."

"Why didn't you just ask your Mom?"

"Fi, I don't want my mother involved in this. The less she knows about the Doctor, the better."

"I know," she answered, not really paying him any attention. Having gotten the cloth thoroughly damp, she wrung it out a last time and began to wipe the Doctor's face. He stirred restlessly at the touch, but didn't wake. "Have you found anything else?"

"'Cyber men' is too generic a term," Michael said after a moment. "And I'm not getting anything on 'Doll-X'."

"How are you spelling it?" She asked.

He told her, adding that he'd also tried it without the hyphenation.

"Try it with an 'h'," Fiona suggested. "D-A-H-L-X."

Michael did as she suggested. "Bunch of gamer profiles, mostly. I'll keep trying."

Fiona heard him typing; the sound became a background to her own work. "I don't understand how this came on so suddenly," she fretted. "Maybe they **did** poison him-one with a time release, to delay its activation?"

Michael made a noncommittal noise-and then looked up sharply. "No, it's **not** sudden. His wound was infected."

"I thought you'd cleaned it?"

"I did, but..." Michael shrugged, indicating how little that meant. He put his laptop aside, and got to his feet. "Help me with him."

Fiona hesitated a moment, then pulled back the blankets. She stayed close to the Doctor, talking quietly all the while as Michael turned him over. "Let me," she said, when he reached for the bandages. Without waiting for an answer, she carefully peeled off the bandage tape and gingerly removed the gauze pad. "Oh," she said faintly.

"Worse than I thought," Michael said, getting up to retrieve the first aid kit. "I'm going to have to go back in."

"Are you certain?"

"No, but even if I'm wrong, the wound's got to be drained. Who knows, maybe it's better that he is unconscious for this one."

Fiona didn't look comforted by this in the least, but stayed close at hand as Michael prepared the instruments that he needed. "Are you sure you don't want me to do it?"

"No offence Fi, but I think you're too worried about hurting him. You might want to move; if he wakes up fighting, he won't realize that it's you."

"I'm not sure he **can** wake up."

"There's always that possibility, too," Michael agreed grimly, and re-opened the incision. He couldn't decide if he was concerned about or relieved by the Doctor's lack of reaction. If nothing else, it made it easier for him to work. He was going to have to go deeper this time, which meant potentially causing more damage-and therefore, more pain.

"Here," Fiona said, pressing a gauze pad to the wound, to soak up some of the blood. "This should help a little."

Michael nodded without answering. He was probing mostly by feel, not knowing what to expect. When the tips of the tweezers touched an unyielding object, he immediately stopped. "Got something." He closed his eyes as he concentrated; finding the edges of so tiny a piece was difficult. "There!" he said triumphantly, as each tip closed on a distinct edge. He tightened his grip, preparatory to pulling-

-and an intense pain shot up his arm. His body convulsed even as his vision was reduced to nothing but a field of white.


	11. Chapter 11

He was not aware of falling, but when sense returned, he was slumped on the floor, awkwardly positioned between the two beds.

"Michael?" Fiona asked. From the worry in her voice, it clearly had not been the first time.

He groaned, struggling to sit up. "What the hell happened?"

"Some sort of electrical shock, I think."

Michael shook his right hand; it stung fiercely. Looking at it, he saw that his first two fingertips and thumb were reddened with mild burns. "The Doctor. How is he?"

Fiona got up from where she crouched beside him, and sat down on the bed. Wrinkling her nose, she said, "It's angry looking, red. Looks... cauterized, really."

"Still out?"

"Yes."

Flexing his burned hand gingerly, Michael located the tweezers on the floor.

"I wouldn't," Fiona cautioned, afraid he was going to make a second attempt.

"Not going to," he assured her.

"Here, let me see," she added, reaching for his hand.

"It's not serious," he said, even as he let her look.

"**That's** not," she said, nodding at his fingers, "but whatever he's carrying..." Fiona sat down next to the Doctor, and began to clean away the blood on his back.

"I know." Michael paced as he thought. "RFID and GPS both have miniature circuitry, the technology's been around for awhile, now. But even the most powerful shouldn't have been able to deliver a shock like that."

"Do you think they're tracking him?"

"No. They would have found us by now, if they were."

"Unless they have," Fiona pointed out. "They can't afford the same kind of confrontation, here."

"True-but with you and Sam going in and out, they could have made a move if they'd wanted to. No; wherever they are, I think they're waiting for something."

"Do you think they know how sick he's gotten? Maybe they think that we'll turn to them for help."

"Or they're waiting for him to die, so they can retrieve the body," Michael said grimly.

"He's not going to die," Fiona said sharply.

Michael didn't answer. What little they knew about Time Lord physiology had come from the Doctor himself, and he was in no shape to give them answers now. The only other hope was to hack into UNIT's databases and search for information there. He just hoped that they weren't expecting him to try it.

"Michael?"

The voice was faint, little more than a whisper-and yet it got Michael's attention more easily than a shout. He put his laptop aside, and moved over to sit on the other bed.

"How long?" the Doctor asked, before he could say anything.

"Most of a day," Michael answered. Without thinking about it, he reached out and touched the Doctor's forehead with the back of his hand. "You've still got a fever. Think you could drink something?"

"Please," the Doctor replied, and as soon as Michael turned away, began the difficult process of sitting up.

Michael nodded and ducked into the bathroom, deliberately stalling for time. When he came back out, he casually snagged a couple of pillows and dropped them into place. Without saying anything, he held the glass of water until the Doctor could take it.

The Time Lord's hand shook slightly, but he didn't drop it. He forced himself to drink only a small amount, and then handed it back. He eased himself into the pillows, grimacing against the pain in his back, and shut his eyes.

"Stay with me," Michael cautioned. "There's something you need to know."

Obediently, the Doctor opened his eyes. "What's that, then?"

"We found out what's causing the infection. The dart was armed with a propulsion system that caused a small chip to break away and imbed more deeply than the shaft could reach, between muscle fibres."

"That's why you couldn't find it before; they would have closed over."

"Exactly. But there's still a problem. The chip seems to be armed; defended against removal."

The look on the Doctor's face changed to one of concern, rather than mere curiosity. "'Defended, you say. Are you quite all right?"

"Burned fingers; no big deal," Michael answered, with an indifferent flex of the same. "No, the real problem is that I couldn't get the chip out. Do you know what it does?"

"Wish I could say I did," the Doctor said almost apologetically. "I know what I **think** it's doing, but that's not the same thing, is it? Any case, I wouldn't have expected it to react like that! No matter, though."

"No?"

"Well, now I'm awake, we can get it out."

"How's that, then?" Michael asked, unconsciously adopting the Doctor's accent and dialect.

"I know how to disarm it. Well, one of a few ways. But even if they don't work, there's no worry of you coming to harm. That's something, any rate."

"And what about you?"

"Still rather have it out."

"Okay. What do I do?"

"I'll need my sonic," the Doctor began.

"Sonic... oh, right." Michael retrieved it from the top of the dresser where Fiona had laid out the Doctor's things.

"Set it to- no, wait, sorry; that won't do. Give over." The Doctor held out a hand expectantly, and nodded when Michael placed the sonic screwdriver in it. He twisted the end a few times, frowning. Every now and then, the device would make a peculiar noise, almost like a whistle. "There!" He said, after a few moments had passed. "That should do. Now what you need to do, is line this up with the chip, and press that button there. Might be a bit of smoke; maybe a smallish sort of explosion-"

"Explosion?" Michael cut in.

"It'd be small; nothing, really," the Doctor said dismissively. "Tiny. Almost insignificant, really, if you don't count the flash. Or was that the burn?" He frowned faintly, then shook his head "Anyway, you want to see **something**, as that's how you'll know it's been done! If you don't get that, give the ol' sonic back to me and I'll have another go; fiddle with the setting, something like that. But once you've gotten that reaction-well, here's a bit of risk; sorry 'bout that. You'll need to go back in, you see. And if I'm right, this time the chip should come right out, safe as houses. If I'm wrong, well, like I said. Sorry."

"I'm willing if you are."

"Good. Let's be about it then, shall we?" The Doctor twisted with some effort, and pushed away a couple of the pillows that were holding him up. He lay down on his stomach with a grimace, and gripped the remaining pillow tightly. He felt Michael's hand on his back, carefully easing the wound open. When he heard the familiar noise of the sonic screwdriver, he clenched his teeth as best he could. A moment later there was a sound that best resembled the distinctive _pop!_ of a light bulb going-not to mention a muffled yell from the Doctor-and the faint smell of char.

"Going in now," Michael told him, and now he pressed downward with the hand that was on the Doctor's back, holding him in place. He forced himself not to hear the pained noises the Time Lord was so clearly not trying to make, and focused on the task at hand.

A moment later he withdrew the tweezers, a tiny chip held in their tips. "Got it!" But he couldn't even savour the moment; he quickly dropped the chip into a bowl he'd grabbed for the purpose, and set about re-bandaging the wound. The Doctor was breathing more easily already; whether that was an effect of the chip being gone, or simple relief, Michael couldn't tell.

"Done," he said, said, smoothing the bandage into place.

The Doctor sighed audibly. "I think," he said, easing himself back over, "that's done it."

"You look the same," Michael said hesitantly.

The Time Lord smiled broadly. "Oh, yes. Nothing visible would happen so quickly as that. Or shouldn't, anyway, not without regeneration. So maybe I owe these blokes somewhat after all; they've saved me going on my eleventh life."

"Eleventh?"

The Doctor nodded. "A Time Lord is meant to be able to regenerate a total of twelve times; which essentially gives us thirteen lives. Most of the time," he added cryptically. "There are those who've cheated."

"You said before that regeneration changes you. How?"

"Everything," the Doctor said simply. "DNA, RNA, everything-all re-written. I retain my memories; most of them, sometimes eventually, but my appearance is entirely changed, right down to the teeth. Feels a bit odd, that. And do you know, I've never been ginger."

"So you don't get a say in the process?"

"Not the least. But here's an odd bit for you; we come back younger, each and every time. Yes, really," the Doctor added, seeing Michael's disbelieving look. "Not children, mind, but even so. How old do you think I am?"

"I would have said around twenty-seven, but if you're asking, you must be older." Michael scrutinized him for a moment. "So probably over thirty, even. Thirty-two?"

The Doctor laughed. "Hardly."

"What; a well-preserved forty?"

"Not even close."

"I'm not going to believe fifty."

"Well, you're right-I'm not."

"Give," Michael said.

"Nine hundred, give or take a few years. All rather blurs together, after the first few centuries. Of course, I could be **wrong**; all this back and forth in the timeline makes it a bit difficult to say. Never mind that a year on Gallifrey is not the same as it would be here on Earth, and so on."

"That's impossible," Michael said-but even as the words escaped him, he realized that he did in fact believe what the Time Lord had told him. And after everything else, why not? So with all the resilience of his training, he seized upon the other piece of information that had been offered. "Is Gallifrey where you're from?" He asked, taking care to pronounce the name properly.

"It was," the Doctor said steadily... but there was something in his voice, in his eyes, that hinted at a terrible pain.

Michael remembered that he'd said that he was the last of the Time Lords, and a picture started to form. "What happened?" He asked.

"We called it the Shining World of the Seven Systems," the Doctor answered in a voice thick with nostalgia. "Home of the Time Lords; their citadel, and within that, the Academy. "It was beautiful, Michael." He looked away. "And it burned."

"The whole planet? How?"

"There was a war. A terrible war, the like of which your race has never seen. It threatened more than the Time Lords, more than the Daleks. Had it gone on, it would have torn the universe apart."

"The Daleks," Michael repeated. "What are they?"

The Doctor considered in silence for a moment. "The Daleks regard themselves as the supreme beings in the universe. And yes, others have felt the same-but the Daleks believe that this so-called 'fact' gives them the right to exterminate all other life. The only emotion they know is hatred, and they are bent on conquest or destruction at all costs."

"And the Cyber Men?"

"They're- Wait. How'd you know about them?"

"You've been sick," Michael said by way of explanation. "Delirious. And, there was a point when you seemed to think that Fi was Rose."

The Doctor opened his mouth to say something, and then shut it again. He looked away, down, and finally glanced back at Michael. "Ah. I see," he said carefully. "Well. Do hope I didn't embarrass her too badly, then." He didn't say anything further, but in his eyes there seemed to be a silent plea for the subject to be changed.

"I know I've asked you this before," Michael began, "but do you know why UNIT's doing this?"

"Something to do with Torchwood, perhaps-which **wouldn't** surprise me, as happens. They're trouble, that lot."

"Torchwood. You mentioned them before, in the loft. Why are they after you?"

"In short? Because they think they can use me-or worse. They've got this notion anything alien belongs to them; even tried to take the TARDIS. 'Course, they justified that on account of me being listed in their charter as an enemy of the Crown."

Michael blinked, but decided to let that pass for the time being. "And when they took your ship, they took you."

"Oh, yes; me, too. Promised they'd keep me 'comfortably', wanted me to **teach** them! Which wasn't what they really wanted at all; the only thing they cared about was power. Anything that would let them scavenge more, exploit more, destroy-" The Doctor cut himself off and looked away, his jaw tightly clenched. "Sorry," he said.

"You got away," Michael said after a few moments had passed.

"I did. Thousands of others weren't so lucky. While the Daleks and Cybermen fought, it was the humans that suffered. Most died. When it was all over, and the enemy pulled into the Void... some of your people were lost through a rift, into a parallel world. None of them can ever come back; they're trapped there, forever. Maybe that's what this is all about; someone thinks I need to pay for that. I stopped the invasion, but all those people are still dead, still lost."

"And Rose was one of them," Michael said, understanding.

"Yes," the Doctor replied quietly. "One of the lost. But that's something, innit? She's alive. With her family, even. It's just that... we'll never see each other again. Can't. Which is nothing to Torchwood, right? Why should it be? Particularly if they've hung all those deaths on me. 'Course we're guessing here, laying this at the feet of Torchwood. After all, it was UNIT that I told you to call, and presumably UNIT who sent those soldiers here."

"Could there be a splinter movement within the organization-maybe working with Torchwood?" Michael suggested.

"If it's not officially recognized, I suppose anything's possible."

"And if they're not, it explains the covert nature of the operation. That could work for us."

"Us?" the Doctor asked cautiously.

"You came to me for help," Michael said simply. "I don't quit until the job's done."

"You mean to take on UNIT?"

"The entire organization, no. My hands are pretty much tied when it comes to anything outside of Miami. But the team they've sent after you? I'll do what I can. Getting that chip out was just the first step. Next thing is to find the TARDIS and take out the black ops unit-or the other way around, whatever."

"I... thank you," the Doctor said finally.


	12. Chapter 12

From the living room came the sound of the door opening. Michael automatically reached for his gun but didn't draw it; already, it was apparent that whoever it was had no interest in being stealthy.

A moment later, Fiona appeared in the doorway. When she saw the Doctor sitting up in bed, her eyes lit up and she smiled. "You're looking much better!" she said, sweeping into the room. She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to touch his face. "Still have a fever, though-but it seems to be going down."

"It's possible," the Doctor assured her. "Michael removed the chip, so at last I'll be on the mend."

Immediately, Fiona looked to Michael. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said easily. "The Doctor was able to tell me what to do."

"Don't give away too much of the credit, Michael," the Doctor said. "I merely told you how to disarm it; yours were the steady hands that actually drew it out!" He grinned faintly at his own grandiose tone, but neither was he entirely kidding.

"Done is done," Fiona told them both, then looked up at Michael. "I talked to Seymour; he's going to come by late this evening."

"Good. Was he able to find anything?"

"He wouldn't say over the phone."

"'Course not," Michael agreed with a sigh. "We might as well have him look at the chip, too."

"Seymour?" The Doctor interjected.

"He's an... associate of mine," Fiona told him. "There's no one better in the business for information on obscure weaponry."

"So, an arms dealer," the Doctor remarked mildly.

Michael hid a smile, seeing how wrong-footed this put Fiona.

"I'd like to meet him," the Doctor continued.

"Sure you're up to it?" Michael asked.

"Should be. Besides I haven't yet seen what you're talking about, myself. Might be we can compare notes."

"Do you have any ideas about the chip?" Fiona asked.

"A few, but I haven't examined it properly. I'll let him have his go, first... unless he wants to disassemble it. That won't do. To get proper readings with the sonic, the structural integrity has to remain intact."

"That still sounds like it can wait, to me," Fiona said. "Have the two of you eaten?"

"Lunch," Michael answered, as the Doctor merely shook his head.

"In that case, do you think you could manage some food?" Fiona asked, this particular question directed at the Time Lord.

"More than. If we're to have company this evening, best that I'm prepared, right?"

"Right," Fiona agreed, smiling. "We'll leave you to get dressed, then," she said, and reached down to take Michael's arm, practically pulling him out of the room. She led him to the kitchen where bags of food were waiting, leaned against the counter, and looked at him seriously. "How is he, really?"

"Pretty much like you see," Michael told her. "With the chip out, his recovery's been incredible. I've never seen anything like it."

"Time Lord," Fiona said, mimicking how the Doctor said it exactly, when he reminded them of the fact.

"Yeah. I just wish I had a better idea what that **means**."

"He'll tell you," Fiona said confidently. "Or show you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "Does it matter?"

Michael frowned, unsure of how to answer. He was saved from the need to by the Doctor's arrival. It was, he realized, the first time that he had ever seen the man confidently on his own two feet.

"You do heal fast," Fiona said admiringly. She caught up the bags of food and retreated to the living room.

"After a fashion," the Doctor agreed, following her. "Which, regrettably, isn't precisely the same thing as not feeling it. No matter."

"Chinese again?" Michael asked, opening one of the bags.

"Cheap and easy," Fiona replied.

"And spicy," the Doctor said agreeably, choosing a small carton for himself.

There was a sharp click as the door's lock disengaged; a moment later Sam entered the suite. He took an appreciative sniff and grinned broadly. "Right on time," he said.

"Help yourself," Michael invited, before Fiona could say anything.

"Don't mind if I do," his friend agreed, detouring by the kitchen to get a beer out of the refrigerator. As he came back to the living room, his eyes fell on the Doctor-and he stared. It was not that the Time Lord was entirely healed; to any who had not seen him before, he still appeared to have taken a severe beating. But instead of the injuries looking a few hours old, they now seemed to be a few days old.

As if feeling his gaze, the Doctor looked up and met Sam's eyes curiously. Immediately, the retired SEAL looked away. Michael watched the exchange, but didn't comment on it. "Seymour's coming by tonight," he said instead.

At once, Sam's attention reverted to his friend. "Want me on board as back-up?"

"If you don't have anything else to do."

"Even if I did, I'd drop it," Sam retorted. "That guy is bad news."

"Why?" the Doctor asked.

"What, being a gun runner isn't enough for ya?"

"Sam," Fiona said warningly. "You're not helping." She looked at the Doctor.

"Seymour is someone I go to for information," Michael said. "He's very good at what he does, but he's also..."

"Paranoid," suggested Fiona.

"Flaky," Sam said at the same time.

"And he's got a bit of a thing for Michael," Fiona added. "Either he wants him to be his boyfriend, or he wants to grow up and **be** him; I can't decide."

"Fi..." Michael groaned.

She laughed. "What? It's true!" She looked at the Doctor. "He talks about what 'badasses' they are together," she continued, miming quotes around the word.

"Can he be trusted?" the Doctor asked.

"Far enough," Michael answered. "He's also a little bit scared of me."

"Enough to hit you with a baseball bat," Sam remarked sardonically.

The Doctor's eyes widened, and he automatically looked to Sam for an answer. Not receiving one, he then looked to Michael.

"Just a misunderstanding," he said dismissively.

"Shouldn't you know all this already?" Sam asked.

The Doctor thought a moment. "Do you know what George Washington had for breakfast on October the ninth, 1782?"

"What? No!"

"But he's an important figure in your country's history, isn't he?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Nothing-and everything. I don't know what old George had for breakfast that day anymore than you do. The only difference between us is that I can go back and find out, if I really want to. But it's not written down, it's not **significant**. Now, if he'd been poisoned that day, that'd be different! It'd be an assassination attempt, a historical footnote. This is the same thing. Michael is fixed in time, but no one else around him is. Because of that, the only people **I** know of are the ones who are truly important to him and to what he does; you and Fiona among them."

"That's how you knew what my name meant?" Fiona asked.

The Doctor gave her an apologetic look. "Sadly, no. I'm just ace at languages, is all."

"Сколько языки вы говорите?" (_How many languages do you speak?_)Michael asked on a whim, in Russian.

"Все них," (_All of them._) the Doctor replied simply, in the same language. "Although, the TARDIS lets me cheat at some of them-she can translate anything. Translates for me, too, which is dead useful. No muss, no fuss; things just come out as I mean them." He frowned suddenly, considering. "Unless I try local slang, **especially** in the past. Our notion of what's colloquial is generally off."

"But you are speaking English now, aren't you?" Fiona asked.

"Yes."

"And your language," she prompted. "Would you say something in that for me?"

To her surprise, he shook his head and very quietly said, "No."

Somewhat ironically, it was Sam that broke the awkward silence that followed. "But what do you know about **us**?" He pressed. "Other than that we're important to Mike?"

The Doctor shrugged. "It's much the same. What really matters is your relationship with him, that he has you to stand by him. Your choice to do so is significant."

Sam pointed a warning finger at the Time Lord. "You stay out of my head."

"Sam!" Fiona exclaimed, appalled.

"No, it's all right. He's not wrong to say so," the Doctor continued. "Some races don't consider that they're being invasive, and won't stay out unless they're specifically told to do so. Cultural differences, and all that. **I've** better manners than that, mind you. Although it might comfort you to know that I can't actually read your thoughts without physical contact-or you, mine, for that matter."

Sam stared for a long moment. "Too weird for me," he announced, as he got to his feet. "Gettin' a beer." Without waiting for a response, he headed for the kitchen.

The Doctor frowned slightly, chewing on his lower lip for a moment. "That... wasn't how he meant it, was it? Oh dear."

Fiona looked at him. "Every time I've touched you..." She began guardedly.

"**No**," the Doctor replied emphatically. "I didn't; I wouldn't. Won't. It's like I said; I've better manners. Doing something like that without someone knowing... it's invasive, it's wrong." Seeing that she didn't look convinced, he cast around in recent memory. "Look here. Michael's told me that when I was sick, there came a time I thought you were Rose. Did you touch me, then?"

"I... yes, of course."

"If I were reading your mind," the Doctor said gently, "how could I have thought you were Rose?" The question seemed to cost him a bit, but he continued. "If I were going to, it would've been then-no control. Instead..." He opened his hands.

Fiona considered him for a moment, and the things that he'd said. "I believe you," she said quietly.

"So you're serious about this," Michael said, studying the man carefully. "Will you prove it?"

"What, that I can control myself? Don't think there is a way to prove that."

"No. But show me what you can do. Take something from my mind, and give me something from yours."

"Mikey..." Sam said warningly, from where he stood listening.

Even the Doctor looked dubious. "Are you quite certain?"

"I am."

_It's always in your best interest to know if the people you're dealing with have a unique skill set. If you can trust them, you'll want to know how well they work before you have to make use of them. Sometimes that means accepting a certain amount of risk, and hoping that it's worth it._

"Very well, then. Easiest way to go about this is, don't think about any of the things you want to keep to yourself-you'll only call attention to them. Instead, I want you to choose something... something rote would do nicely. Something that you wouldn't usually have to think about at all." The Doctor waited a few moments, then asked, "Have you got something?"

"Yes."

"And you're absolutely certain you want me to do this."

"Somethin' we oughta know?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "If you hurt him-"

"I won't," the Doctor answered. "But sometimes proof of concept changes everything."

"If it's part of what you are, then he's got a right to know. You owe him that."

"I owe him a lot more than that," the Time Lord replied quietly. He looked back at Michael. "You ready, then?"

Michael nodded.

"Right," the Doctor said, getting up and moving to cross the room to where Michael sat. He reached out and laid a hand on either side of Michael's head, so that his thumbs were touching his temples. He shut his eyes for a moment; when he opened them again, he was looking down and slightly past him. He frowned slightly, then spoke carefully. "Press the magazine catch; remove the magazine. Pull the slide back completely and hold open with thumb." The Doctor shook his head slightly as he dropped his hand, and smiled in bemusement. "A field stripping manual? Well, I suppose that does fit the criteria that I set."

"You all right, Mike?" Sam asked.

"Fine," his friend said easily. "Didn't feel a thing."

"You shouldn't," the Doctor answered. "Oh, it's possible, but being that heavy handed... that's poorly done, is what it is. It's ill-mannered to cause discomfort, never mind actual pain."

"But you can," Michael pressed.

The Doctor's eyes were grim as he answered. "Oh, yes. You most certainly can." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Right, then. Turn about is fair play, and all that. Again; are you ready?"

"Yes."

This time, the Doctor took Michael's hand and held it to the side of his own face, and maintained the contact. "I want to show you something," he said. "It might be easier at first if you shut your eyes."

Obediently, Michael did so.

_Can you hear my voice?_

"I can hear you."

_Tell me what you see_.

As if he had thought of it himself, an image was suddenly in Michael's mind. A young woman-hardly more than a girl-with shoulder length blonde hair framing her face. Her eyes were hazel, though tending more towards brown. At first they were concerned, but then her expression changed, and she smiled. Michael described her, described what he understood had to be a memory.

_Rose Tyler_. But it was more than just a name, more than just words. The rush of feeling that came; intense love, harrowing grief, and keen longing-

-that was suddenly gone, as if it had never been there.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor apologized, breaking the contact. "I didn't mean for that to happen." He rubbed his hands over his eyes and then through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles.

"Didn't mean for **what** to happen?" Sam asked.

"Emotional transference. Thought I had a handle on that; I was wrong." He looked earnestly at Michael. "I **am** sorry; for that bit, anyway. You surely don't need my grief!" He puzzled over his own words for a moment. "There's a pun there somewhere, innit? How you Americans say such things. No matter. The simple fact is... I wanted there to be someone to remember her besides me. What she looked like; that she lived, that she was loved."

"Who?" Fiona asked.

Michael looked at her curiously. "He said." Confused by her expression, he looked at the Doctor. "Didn't you?"

The Doctor tapped the side of his head with a finger. "In here. Last thing I said to you aloud before breaking off was to tell you to shut your eyes."

"But I did hear you," Michael said, half-seeking confirmation.

"You did."

"In that case," Fiona broke in, "who was she?" Though even as she asked the question, she thought that she already knew.

"Rose Tyler," Michael answered. "I saw Rose Tyler." He repeated it in part because he was still having trouble believing it-any of it.

"It's gotta be some kind of trick," Sam said. "When you were tryin' to find information about her, are you **sure** you didn't run into a picture of her?"

"I'm sure."

"N' he hasn't said anything about what she looks like? At all?"

Michael shook his head. "And even if you can explain that, how do you explain what I heard?"

"Simple. It's like some kind of ventriloquism; we couldn't hear him, you did."

"Standing this close? Sam, you're better than that, and you know it."

"Yeah, well..."

"Besides, how do you explain what he got from me?"

"Please, anyone diggin' around for information on you could figure out what kind of sidearm you usually carry. N' recitin' something like that is rote enough, don't you think?"

"And I could have just as easily recited the alphabet."

"Too easy."

Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sam, have another beer."

Throughout the exchange, the Doctor had said nothing, not even to defend himself. As Sam stormed into the kitchen in disgust, the Time Lord also got to his feet. Instead of following, he stepped out onto the balcony, shutting the door most of the way behind him. There was just enough light to make out his profile leaning against the railing, head tilted back as he stared up at the stars.


	13. Chapter 13

Fiona looked after him for a moment, and came to the decision that the slightly open door could be taken as an invitation to follow. She stepped out onto the balcony, and as he had done before her, did not close the door all the way. Joining him at the railing, she also looked up at the night sky. "Do you miss it?" She asked.

The Doctor glanced over at her. "What's that?"

Fiona gestured outwards; upwards. "All that."

"That? No." A pause. "Well, yes, actually-but it's not as if I won't start again, is it? Just need to get the TARDIS back, and it's off we go." He frowned, then smiled ruefully. "Off I go, rather."

"How did the two of you... I mean- Never mind."

"How did we meet?" The Doctor asked. "She was a shop girl in London; a placed called Henrik's. Absolutely infested with Autons. We traced them back to the Nestene Consciousness and eventually destroyed the lot." He smiled faintly at the memory. "Couldn't help but ask her if she wanted to travel with me, after all that!"

"And she said yes," Fiona guessed.

"Not at first. But when I told her that the TARDIS could travel through time as well as space, that clinched it. We've-we **had**-been together ever since."

There were other questions that Fiona wanted to ask, that she **could** have asked had the Doctor been female, or a close friend. Instead, Rose Tyler would have to remain a mystery; one whose ghost seemed to linger about the Time Lord, surely as she had left her mark on his hearts.

A knock on the door of the suite drew Fiona's attention back. "That'll be Seymour," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "I'd better go deal with him. He drives Michael crazy."

"I'll be along," the Doctor assured her.

Fiona nodded and stepped away. At the door she hesitated, and looked back. "He's a bit... eccentric," she told him.

"Is this where you say, 'but harmless'?"

"I would, except that he's not. No more than I am." With that mysterious comment, Fiona left him.

"Were you trying to shock me, Fiona Glenanne?" The Doctor murmured, watching her go. Then his eyes fell on the man who had entered the suite, and he tensed. Without hesitation he pushed the door open and strode into the room.

"I'm just saying that you owe me a little... consideration," Seymour was saying. "I mean, no offence, but I don't think you guys **appreciate** how much-" He broke off with a sudden girlish shriek, eyes staring wildly in the direction of the balcony doors-specifically, at the Doctor. "You!"

"Me," the Doctor agreed, his voice low and dangerous sounding.

Seymour suddenly dove behind Michael, grabbing at the man's sidearm as he did so. Michael twisted away, and in the same motion took Seymour's gun as well: "Give me that," he said impatiently, almost as if scolding a wayward child.

"But- he- you-" Seymour stuttered. "Jackass, shoot him!"

"Do that," Michael said, "and I'll shoot your boss, here. Seymour, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Don't you know who he **is**?" Seymour all but squeaked. "He is the Dark Lord!"

Sam raised a sceptical eyebrow. "He's Voldemort?"

"No! Don't you get it? Seriously? Don't make jokes! The Daleks call him Ka Faraq Gatri; Bringer of Darkness, Destroyer of Worlds! He is the Oncoming Storm!"

"'The Oncoming Storm'," Michael repeated, glancing at the Doctor to see his reaction.

But the Time Lord's attention was on Seymour. "I seem to recall telling you to leave, and to never come back."

"I did!" Seymour exclaimed. "I left Britain, didn't I?"

"And came here."

"But you **never** come here; you hardly ever bother with the Americas! And you've never been to Florida, to Miami!"

"I meant for you to leave this planet, and you knew that full well."

"But I **like** it here! And it's not like I've killed anyone. At least, not like **that**. Usually. It's been a long time, right? And those were accidents."

"Accidents," the Doctor echoed.

"Totally! Look, I've got it all figured. If you've got enough people, you don't **have** to kill them!" Seymour took in the Doctor's disbelieving expression, and all but pouted. "What, you don't believe me? Ask Michael, he'll tell you. I've got people around me **all the time**. And they're not dropping like flies, are they? That'd be a real buzzkill, man. The whole point is to keep the party going! So you spread the money around, and the smoothies, and it's all good."

"Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?" Michael asked, looking from one to the other. "Obviously you two know each other."

"He's a plasmavore," the Doctor replied, his eyes still on Seymour. "A shapeshifter who feeds on blood."

"Oh, please," Sam scoffed. "Seriously? So according to you, he's like a... what? Some kind of space-vampire?"

But Michael had been watching Seymour's expression, and had seen him flinch at the term "plasmavore". Never mind the fact that he had mentioned the Daleks. "He's telling the truth, isn't he?"

Seymour looked at the ground, wearing an expression similar to that of a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Michael half-expected him to scuff the toe of his shoe in nonexistent dirt. "Well... yeah," he admitted reluctantly. "But so am I! He **is** known as that, he **did** do those things!"

Michael glanced at the Doctor, who met his eyes steadily. "There was a war," the Time Lord said simply.

"With his... people?" Michael asked, nodding at Seymour.

The Doctor shook his head. "No. Between the Time Lords and the Daleks. I'll not make excuses for the things I've done. I did what I had to."

It was an explanation that Michael could readily understand.

"No way," Seymour said, seeing the look that passed between the pair. "Aww, c'mon, don't be like that! I'm tellin' you, Michael, this is one dangerous dude. You could save everyone a whole lot of trouble if you just shoot him."

Michael smiled. "Shoot him," he repeated. Even Sam hadn't suggested that he do that.

"Or... maybe not," Seymour amended.

"Oh, just stop it, all of you," Fiona said impatiently. She looked at the Doctor. "We need to know what he's found out about the dart." Without waiting for an answer, she switched her gaze to Seymour. "Do you really think coming here and threatening one of Michael's friends is a good idea? Especially one you're so afraid of?"

"So, what? I just tell you everything I know, and **then** he kills me?" Seymour asked. "Don't think so."

"Oh, please. I never once tried to kill you!" the Doctor exclaimed, clearly disgusted.

"But you **could**," Seymour insisted.

"So could any of us," Michael pointed out.

"And might," Fiona added, "if you don't tell us what we want to know."

"You wouldn't," Seymour said, looking at her. Then he looked at Michael. "She wouldn't, would she?"

"Never know," Sam said, clearly enjoying the man's discomfort.

"Could save a lot of time by just telling us what we want to know," Michael suggested. "Then you just walk away."

"And you're gonna protect me, right? Keep him from coming after me?"

Michael glanced at the Doctor. "Up to you."

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair and then tilted his head back as if to study the ceiling for answers. When he looked back at Seymour, his eyes seemed darker somehow, and his expression was deadly serious. "If I ever find out that you've gone back to your old ways-"

"I won't, I swear!"

"-or that you **ever** bring harm to Michael and his friends again-"

"No way, not happenin', we're all badasses together; it's destiny!"

"-I will come back for you. And there is no place on Earth that you can hide from me. Do we have an understanding?"

Seymour nodded earnestly. "Yeah, yeah, sure. And I promise, seriously promise. It'll be cool, man. Totally cool."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow and turned slightly towards Michael-who nodded assent. "He means it."

"Good," Fiona said, sounding satisfied. "Now that we've got that sorted out, let's get down to business."

Most of the small group arranged themselves on furniture around the living room; Jackass stood with his back to the door. Sam nudged Michael with an elbow and then jerked his head in the bodyguard's direction. "He seems to be taking all this rather well."

"What, Jackass?" Seymour asked, overhearing. "He already knows! I mean, seriously-this is **Miami**. Anything goes, man. Long as you can pay for it, you can have whatever you want, do whatever you want. Who needs Vegas? Here, I'm just a different kinda weird." Just then, the arms dealer noticed the Doctor's eyes on him, and shut up.

"And what about the Doctor?" Fiona asked.

"What, you think I'm going to ask you to **pay** for Jackass to stay quiet?" Seymour asked. "You wouldn't, ah, actually do that, would you?" He added in an undertone, but immediately shook his head while flapping one hand as if waving the idea away. "No, no; Fiona baby, it's all good. I mean, do you really think we're the only aliens here? C'mon, seriously!"

"You've gotta be kidding," Sam said, heading for the kitchen. "**More** aliens? All right, where's the hidden camera?"

"He's right, though," the Doctor said quietly, noticing Michael glancing in his direction. "We're not the only ones. Most you'll never see, never even suspect-they don't want to be noticed, so they do their best to blend in."

"But why are they here?" Fiona asked. "I mean, why Earth?"

The Doctor shrugged. "It's a good place to hide," he said-but even as he did, he frowned. "Your ideas about aliens tend to be wrong, and at this point in time you still generally miss what's obvious to everyone else in the universe. Only to be expected with the human-seeming types, but honestly! Where **does** your lot think platypuses came from?"

Fiona laughed. "You really mean it, don't you?"


	14. Chapter 14

The Doctor nodded, but seemed somewhat distracted. "Michael, have you got a laptop that I can borrow?"

Michael shook his head. "I've only got a desktop, and that's back at the loft." He didn't add that its significant age would likely render it useless in the Doctor's eyes.

Seymour scrambled to his feet and picked up a black bag. "Here," he said eagerly, thrusting it towards the Doctor. "Top of the line and everything."

Whatever his misgivings about the plasmavore, the Doctor set them aside long enough to take what was offered. He had the machine up and running quickly, then began typing at a speed most human admins would admire. "Too slow," he murmured to himself, and pulled out his sonic screwdriver.

"Wait, what-" Seymour started to protest. Too late; there was a flash of blue light as the device made its now familiar noise.

"You'll thank me, later," the Doctor answered, without looking up. He continued typing, but now the screens were loading and changing at an astonishing rate.

"You can read that?" Michael asked in surprise.

The Time Lord nodded without looking up, still frowning. Whatever he was seeing, he clearly didn't like it. When he finally did speak, it was in a whisper; "I should've seen it sooner. This is **all wrong**!"

Michael frowned, leaning over to look for himself before realizing that he'd not be able to read a single word at that speed. "What is it?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Later," he murmured, eyes flicking towards Seymour for the briefest of moments. "It's got no bearing on what's to hand. Which," he said, closing the screens on the laptop and passing it back to Seymour, "you do."

"I- I thought we were past all that," Seymour protested. "That we were good! Right?"

"The dart, Seymour," Michael prompted. He was well used to the man's ability to get distracted.

"Oh, yeah! That! Got it right here. Well, I've got what you gave me, which is just the casing. You knew that, right? 'Course you did. And it looks like the dart shaft was **supposed** to be break-away, which is good to know, 'cause that tells us that the delivery was important. You don't, um, actually have the shaft, do you?"

Michael shook his head without offering further explanation.

"Okay, no big deal, doesn't matter. What you really wanna know is who made it-or in this case, where it came from. And that's not anywhere on planet Earth, baby. At least," this with a nod to the Doctor, "not from this time!"

"Let me see," the Time Lord said, holding out his hand.

Seymour produced the casing from some inner pocket and laid it carefully in the Doctor's hand. "I dunno the origin," he confessed. "Guess it's kinda good you outted me, though. I mean, I had **no** idea what I was gonna tell Michael."

"Sontaran," the Doctor observed. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. In the bottom rested the chip that Michael had removed. "What do you make of this?" He asked.

"Can I...?" Seymour asked, tapping the seal.

"I wouldn't."

"Right," the arms dealer said knowingly, although he probably didn't. "**This** isn't Sontaran."

"No."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Rather interested in hearing what you think, actually," the Doctor replied.

"Um. How long was the shaft?"

It was Fiona who answered; "About two inches."

"Could you tell if the chip was inside or not?"

"It was small enough to fit inside."

Seymour frowned as he thought it over. "Can't be a tracking chip; you don't need to do all this for a **tracking** chip. Military's got that tech covered. What'd it do?"

Almost instinctively, Fiona glanced at the Doctor. No words passed between them, but a second later she looked back at Seymour and shook her head; she wouldn't say.

Seymour shifted uncomfortably. "Um. Well. It... kinda looks like a prison-chip, maybe for a shapeshifter?"

Now knowing the arms dealer's true nature, Michael couldn't help but wonder about his familiarity with the topic. But Seymour was continuing.

"But it's been modified-and not by the creators, either. This is human tech. See? Kinda clumsy around the edges, if you know what I mean." He frowned, then looked at Michael. "Lemme guess, somethin' to do with those military types that're staking out your place? They're weird, man. It's not like I've got your contacts or anything, but a Fed's a Fed, and they aren't. Where'd they come from, anyway?"

"Probably better if you don't know," Michael answered.

Seymour started to protest, but the Doctor cut him off. "Leave it be," he said sharply. "That lot **is** likely to kill you, and most would still count you lucky."

Seymour's eyes widened. "Torchwood?" he asked in a hushed voice, with the peculiar reverence that is usually reserved for the worst of monsters.

"How do you know about them?" Michael asked, before the Doctor could say anything.

The arms dealer gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Alien," he said, in almost the same way that the Doctor was prone to say "Time Lord".

"What's **that** supposed to mean?" Sam asked. He still had a beer in his hand, but a practiced eye could see that he'd slowed his consumption of alcohol considerably.

"Well, it's like I said. There's a lot of us, right? I mean, most of us don't know each other, don't even want to; nobody wants turf wars from other galaxies showing up in their front yard, that's not cool. But there's ways to communicate, to pass word. And ever since the Battle of Canary Wharf, there's been that warning: stay away from Torchwood."

"Battle of Canary Wharf?" Michael couldn't help but ask.

"You don't know?" Seymour glanced at the Doctor, but the Time Lord remained silent. "O-kay. Anyway, it happened a couple of years ago. Daleks invaded, and... oh, these other metal dudes. Like robots, but not. You ask me, **they** weren't the scary ones. Nothing scarier than a Dalek, except maybe a pissed off Time Lord." The joke fell flat, and Michael took advantage of the silence.

"The other aliens, could they have been called 'Cybermen'?"

"Could be, yeah. You really oughta ask him, though-he was there."

Michael's mind was already racing; Seymour had to be talking about the confrontation in which the Doctor had lost Rose. Two years for the world; how long for the Time Lord? Certainly no more than a few days-not even long enough to know that one of what seemed to be the worst events in his long life had been given a name.

"Anyway, the governments did a pretty good job of covering it up, but **we** know. You've got to, if you're gonna survive."

"It matches up," the Doctor said, seemingly to himself. "It all matches up!" He got to his feet and paced over to the balcony doors, then back again. Despite the still-apparent bruises, he was already moving more easily.

"Doctor?" Fiona asked cautiously.

"Right," he replied. "Fine. Nothing." He flicked his hand in a dismissive wave and returned his attention to Seymour. "Carry on."

"That was kinda it," Seymour answered. "About Torchwood, I mean." He looked back at the Doctor. "So... am I right?"

"I think so," the Doctor replied. "But it's early generation, congruent with twenty-first century tech. 'Course, that's the only version that **would** be adaptable then, innit? The later versions have built in-well, they **call** them safeties, but they're hardly that!"

"But what would you modify them for?" Seymour asked.

"**I** wouldn't. But what they've done here is actually quite clever, really. It seems they're using it to lock DNA in a given genetic code, which, if they were successful, would make radiation poisoning much less common. Possibly even nonexistent, and just imagine how much good **that** would do the species! You'd want to use it as a buffer, of course, rather than doing away with the suits-but even so. Just brilliant, these humans."

Of course, Michael noted silently, it actually did more than that-not that he'd be the one to tell the arms dealer that.

Seymour smirked. "Even if they're on the wrong side," he noted.

"Are they, though? I doubt very much that these were developed for offensive use. Someone was trying to be helpful; someone else stole the idea, or the device itself. And here we are."

"There **you** are," Seymour corrected. "I don't want anything to do with Torchwood, man. No offence, but you guys are on your own. Seriously."

Fiona eyed him coolly. "I don't recall anyone asking for anything further."

Seymour's eyes widened perceptibly. "It's not like I don't care, or anything," he hastily explained. "But Michael... I mean, c'mon, you guys don't actually **need** me; he's badass enough for the both of us, y'know? I'd just be in the way. And besides, y'know, there's these... considerations."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "I seem to remember you sayin' something about that when you first got here."

"What? Oh, **that**. Tell you what; just forget I said anything. This one's on the house, free and totally clear. Okay? We're cool?"

Michael nodded. "We're cool."

The Doctor glanced at Seymour. "And you'll remember..."

Seymour nodded earnestly, getting to his feet. "I will," he assured the Time Lord. "I will. Come on, Jackass." With as much haste as was seemly, the arms dealer gathered his things and left, his bodyguard trailing him like a faithful hound.

"Will he?" the Doctor asked tiredly.

Michael nodded. "Pretty sure, anyway." He didn't ask what the Doctor intended to do if Seymour didn't keep his word.


	15. Chapter 15

"The things he told you," Fiona began. "Are we any better off?"

"Let's just say that I don't mind the confirmation," the Doctor answered. "I can say for certain that he truly does not grasp what he's seen, and that's just as well."

"Is your ability to regenerate common knowledge?" Michael asked.

"Tricky question, that. Those who feel they have reason to know, know more than I'd like. To others, the Time Lords are hardly anything more than a myth. If what you're asking is whether or not he can guess if that's what UNIT was trying to cancel out, I'd have to say 'no'."

"Probably just as well," Michael agreed, than continued with another question. "I understand why the chip prevented regeneration, but why did it keep you from healing?"

"You mean in a general sense, yeah? Rather than the technical specs thereof?"

"Yes."

"I expect the answer's found in the nature of the chip; it's meant for incarceration. It's more than a matter of whether the shifter can change form and get away; they'll want to see that whatever punishment they've deemed appropriate is properly carried out."

"You mean UNIT?" Michael asked.

"Considering how it's been modified, I would have said not, that they'd intended it for the good of their own people-but given where you found it? Well." The Doctor looked away from them for a moment, his expression troubled.

Fiona watched him; wanted to say something that would comfort him, and realized that she had no idea where to begin. It was a lot like trying to say something to Michael; there were no words that could quiet his anger, and nothing to soothe the pain that he didn't admit existed. "And you still don't know why they've done this to you?" She asked the question without actually meaning to; she still remembered how Michael had said he'd struggled with it, the first time he'd been asked. But once said, there was no way to take it back.

Fortunately, the Doctor didn't seem disturbed, only shook his head. "Oh, I could have a guess, I suppose-but that's just the problem. Nothing to build it from, nothing to support it; there's simply not enough data, and without that, there's no point to it. Have to hope that whatever we," there was an almost imperceptible hesitation after the word, as if he still didn't quite dare to believe it, "find will give us the answers."

"Speaking of answers," Michael cut in, "earlier, you said that something was wrong. What?"

The Doctor gave a short laugh; a sound with utterly no humour in it. "Everything. Absolutely and utterly everything."

If a human had said that-and just when had he started thinking that way, anyhow?-Michael would have assumed that they were exaggerating. He hoped the same thing could be said of Time Lords. "Everything?" he repeated.

"Well, no. Earth's standard gravity is still 9.80665 m/s2, and the equatorial speed is approximately 465.1 m/s, so we can assume that there's been no overall planetary shock. However, everything to do with the timeline outside of third world countries is wrong, wrong, **wrong**."

Michael blinked, and didn't know if it was disbelief or shock that kept his voice calm when he asked, "How?"

"The Sycorax Invasion was meant to be the genesis of the human awareness of aliens. Finally something **so big** had occurred that they couldn't hide it anymore, couldn't **ignore** it anymore. Torchwood was involved in that, too, as happens. When Fiona repeated what I'd said that day; well, it surprised me, but I didn't really think about it, did I? And I should've done. Because while the words were private, it stands to reason they'd be recorded, repeated-not covered up. And so I checked; all of the things I knew should've happened in this period. They still have, but they're changed, hidden, different! Even the Battle of Canary Wharf;" the Doctor grimaced slightly as he said this, as if the words were distasteful, "that's been reduced to conspiracy theory and explained by mass hallucination, except within secret departments of various governments. Everything's changed!"

"Can you... fix it?" Fiona asked.

"Depends on what you mean by 'fix'," the Doctor replied.

"I don't know; go back in time so that whatever changed, never happened?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Can't. Near as I can tell, history changed the moment I met Michael-and that doesn't make any sense. The TARDIS **knows** better, and **still** she chose you to help me!"

Fiona smiled. "Maybe you're important, too."

"It doesn't work like that. Time Lords... we all but exist **outside** of time. We're never to interfere, only watch." He hesitated, then added, "I've never been all that good at that part, I must admit."

"Meaning what?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"Meaning sometimes I'd rather not let people die, if I can help it," the Doctor replied sharply. "Sometimes," he repeated quietly, as if reflecting on his own words. "All of the time, really. But it doesn't work like that."

"How **does** it work?" Michael asked.

"It's pretty much like I told you; some people-like yourself-and some events are just fixed in time. They can't be changed, or ought not be, at any rate. Ah, let's see, major event in your history... Pompeii! Pompeii is a good one. Well. Don't really mean to say 'good', do I? But it captures the spirit of the thing. That event has huge historical significance. It had to happen; it has to happen."

Fiona frowned, shaking her head. "'Has' to happen? But it already did."

"For you, yes. But suppose we were there on the twenty-third of August, seventy-nine AD? It hasn't happened yet, and it must be allowed to. That's the hard part."

"You have to let them die," Michael concluded.

The Doctor nodded solemnly. "Yes, exactly."

"But from some perspectives... they're already dead," Michael continued. "Which is why you can't change it-and I'm guessing, here-how you live with it."

"Some of the time," the Doctor admitted.

"So what you're really sayin' is," Sam put in, "you justify all those deaths."

Fiona narrowed her eyes. "And you've never done?" She asked coldly.

"That's different."

The Doctor smiled sadly. "'Course it is," he agreed, without any trace of sarcasm.

"The point is," Michael said, feeling the need to establish some control over the conversation, "is that you can't change things back to the way they were."

"No."

"So what do we do?"

"First thing is to get the TARDIS back."

"Yeah, about that," Sam began. "Exactly how do you forget where you park a spaceship?"

"Oh, I think the manner of my arrival was reason enough," the Doctor replied. "The real question is, has anyone else noticed her?"

"Is there some sort of... cloaking device?" Michael asked.

"Not as such. It's more a matter of a perception filter. There's the chameleon circuit as well, but that stopped functioning some time ago-it's why she appears as she does. Used to be I could go to Ancient Rome, and she'd look a statue on a plinth. Sadly, hers is stuck, and so there you have it. A police box." He smiled fondly. "To tell you the truth, I don't think I'd have her any other way; not after all this time."

"That's a **blue** police box, right? British origin, somewhere in the fifties?" Sam asked.

The Doctor nodded, then smiled broadly as realisation hit. "You found her!"

"Not exactly. UNIT found it first."

"Where?" Fiona asked, her eyes even more intent than the Doctor's. Michael knew her well; could see she was already planning all manner of destructive strategies. Most of them would likely involve explosives.

"An abandoned warehouse down near the waterfront. Only reason we know about it is 'cause someone saw them moving it-said it was a prop for a movie, or somethin'."

"How secure is the perimeter?" Michael asked.

"Not very. I get the feelin' they're just waitin' for us to try and come in there."

"Us?" Michael asked mildly. "Sam, you don't have to be in on this if you don't want to."

"You know better than that, Mikey. 'Sides, you can't pull off this thing without me!"

Fiona rolled her eyes, but was nice enough to turn her head so that Sam wouldn't see her do it.

"Can we go in with what you have?" Michael asked.

"Better not; sorry. Wanna see if I can get a feel for what's on the inside, first. The fact that they want us to come in makes me think that they're gonna be ready for us."

"All right, when? And keep in mind that we don't want to scare them off; if we come on too strong, they might move elsewhere."

Before Sam could protest about Michael's seeming lack of confidence in him, Fiona got to her feet. "I'll let you boys work out the details," she said nonchalantly. "Call me in the morning, Michael, and let me know what the plan is."

"Where are you going?"

"To keep an eye on Seymour. If he hasn't gone straight home, I want to know where he's gone-and why."

"You don't think..."

"Not really, he's too afraid of him," and here she bestowed an affectionate glance on the Doctor. "But it never hurts to know for sure. 'Night." Without waiting for a response, she breezed out.

The Doctor frowned. "If Seymour's not gone home, how will she find him?"

Michael shrugged. "She's Fi. That's all you need to know."

The Doctor smiled and said, "I understand" in a way that caused Michael to believe him-and wonder if he was thinking of his lost Rose. Some questions were better left unasked. In any case, he didn't have the chance as the Time Lord rose and excused himself from the conversation, bidding them both a good night.

"You sure about this, Mikey?" Sam asked.

"Helping him? Yeah, I'm sure."

"You heard the things Seymour called him."

"Yeah; Voldemort. I'm a little old for kids' stories, Sam. Besides-what do you think they call me in Russia? Afghanistan? What sort of title do I have in their language?"

"Aw, c'mon; that's different."

"Is it?"

Sam briefly considered insisting that it was, then realized that Michael would expect him to validate the remark. He sighed, and tried another tactic. "Y'know, Mike, it was the other side that gave you those titles-pretty bad customers. How do you know these 'Daleks' weren't in the right?"

"What Fiona found on the Battle of Canary Wharf was pretty compelling-and then there's Seymour."

"Don't tell me you're going to start taking him seriously."

"Not exactly. But when he was talking about the Daleks, he was genuinely afraid."

"Seemed more afraid of this Torchwood, if you ask me."

Michael shrugged. "Maybe he was; if everything we've heard about them is true, he'd have reason to be."

"And you really wanna get wrapped up in this?"

"Want? No. But unless I'm going to start acting completely out of character, then it's already out of my hands."


	16. Chapter 16

"Child's play," Fiona announced with evident satisfaction, staring down at the blueprints spread out on the table before them. "We use some C4 to take out the wall there; that should disable their control centre-and if we're lucky, take out one or two of their operatives."

The Doctor shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "If we can at all avoid it, I don't want these men to be hurt."

Fiona sighed, then looked at Michael. "Sure you're pleased; he thinks just like you!"

Michael's lips quirked slightly in what might have been a smile, but he didn't comment. "We know there are motion sensors inside. We should be able to use that to arrange a distraction elsewhere in the building; that might draw them away. But I have to be honest with you; there are no guarantees. Someone may end up hurt, someone may end up dead. I'd rather it be one of them, than one of us."

The Doctor nodded his agreement. "No argument from me," he said. "Believe me, I appreciate all that you're doing on my behalf."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Is there another way to get rid of you?" he muttered.

"Once we're in," Michael continued as if Sam hadn't said anything, "we'll need to find the TARDIS. Do you have anything that will let you pinpoint her location?"

"Not like you mean, no-but yes, I can find her."

"And what happens then?" Sam asked.

The Doctor shrugged. "We get in. I take you lot with me." He frowned, considering. "A parallel jump's no comfortable thing; might be best to simply go into the Vortex before bringing you back here. That won't take care of UNIT, however."

"If you're gone," Fiona began, "won't the team be recalled?"

"Can't say for certain," the Doctor said regretfully. "'Less I make myself very visible elsewhere, which strikes me as just the thing to do."

"They'll come after you again," Michael warned.

"That's the idea. Once I have their attention, I'll leave Earth awhile. Not as though I have anything holding me here, do I?" The question was rhetorical, but even so, the Doctor sounded downcast.

Fiona's expression was sympathetic; one hand twitched slightly, as if she were going to reach for him. But she knew that there was nothing she could do; no way to replace the people that he had lost.

_Combining a bodyguard detail with an extraction mission is never a good idea. If you absolutely have to take the client with you, it's a good idea to make sure they're in the back, out of harm's way. When you can't do that, the only thing left is to keep them at your side and hope that you can shoot whoever's shooting at you, first._

"I still can't believe you talked me into this," Sam grumbled quietly, setting a cat carrier just outside the warehouse door. A meow that was mostly growl came from within; just barely visible were glowing yellow eyes in a black face. "A freakin' **cat** as a distraction."

Michael shrugged, hiding his amusement. "It'll set off the motion detectors, and that's all we need. Besides, one less cat behind the loft won't increase the rodent population by that much." He pulled out a set of lock picks and leaned awkwardly around the cat carrier to work. "Keep an eye out," he said without looking up. When both Sam and the Doctor answered in the affirmative, he could easily imagine at least one of them glaring at the other. He caught himself wishing that they could work it out, then reminded himself that it wouldn't matter. Once this job was done, the Doctor would be off to lure UNIT (and Torchwood?) elsewhere. He had no reason to think that he'd ever see the Time Lord again. And yet...

There was a faint clicking sound as the lock submitted; without a word Michael moved back so that Sam could release the cat. His friend might have thought it was a ridiculous idea, but he wasn't going to allow his views to jeopardize the operation. Once that was done, all three of them backed off to wait for the next stage of the plan to begin.

That stage was spectacularly heralded by a series of explosions. Michael silently counted to five, then gestured to the others; "Let's move." Without being obvious about it, he kept a careful eye on the Doctor. The Time Lord had assured him that he'd been in more dangerous situations, but the former spy couldn't forget their first meeting. Strangely, he felt rather responsible for him.

Thanks to Fiona's efforts, it was dark inside of the warehouse. There was a seeming silence that actually did not exist: the preternatural after-effects of an explosion. Michael led the way in, uncomfortably conscious of the unarmed man at his side. Even the sonic screwdriver would have lent the impression of a weapon; instead, the Doctor just looked vulnerable.

"Mikey," Sam said in a low voice, looking off to his left. Rows of shelves and boxes came together to form a sort of maze, but did not baffle sound reliably.

"How many?" Michael was little more than mouthing the words.

There was a pause as Sam gathered whatever information allowed him to make the decision, and then held up two fingers. Another gesture said that they were still some distance away yet, and could be avoided.

Michael nodded and looked at the Doctor. "Which way?" He asked quietly.

The Doctor closed his eyes, cocking his head slightly as if somehow listening. When he opened his eyes again, he did not speak, only pointed in the direction that they would have to go.

"Stay close," Michael cautioned him, and began attempting to find the way through the maze.

There was a sharp noise that vaguely resembled gunfire; a whining, buzzing shriek of metal almost directly above them, and a brief shower of sparks.


	17. Chapter 17

"What the hell was that?" Sam asked, as they all ducked.

"Questions later; go!" Michael said, already moving.

"Won't do any good, they've got seeker scopes," the Doctor said, although he didn't stop.

"What are those?" Michael asked, without slowing his pace. "Infrared?" Another round punched through several layers of boxes nearby, and he veered away reflexively, catching hold of the Doctor's arm without conscious thought.

"Worse. The scope has sort of an artificial intelligence that lets it see its targets, plan the best possible trajectory. There's no actual guidance on the projectile, but it's bad enough!"

"What about the ammunition?"

The Doctor glanced back at where the spent rounds had struck. "Worse yet."

"Meaning?"

The Doctor was about to answer when Michael dragged him down to the floor. There was another piercing shriek from above them; sparks rained down. "Borer round," the Time Lord gasped. "Like a drill bit-but smart, like the seeker scope. Once it's in, it won't come out... keeps turning back on itself until it loses momentum. Nasty piece of work."

"Great," Sam said from behind them, then returned fire.

"We've got to find Fiona," Michael said, pulling the Doctor back to his feet. "How much further?"

"Can't be far; but I'll not leave you. There's no saying you'll be able to find the TARDIS without me, and I'm your ticket out of here-for all of you."

"And they say women are hysterical," Fiona said in exasperation, coming around a corner. "Honestly, I've never heard such dramatics."

Three rounds, fired in quick succession, produced three near misses.

"Run!" The Doctor yelled, already moving. The others followed, Michael staying closest to the Time Lord. He heard Fiona and Sam returning shots from behind, and hoped that it would be enough.

_Being outnumbered and outgunned on enemy territory is bad. Being in that same situation with what amounts to a civilian is worse-especially if the people shooting at you are after him. Even if you have the poor taste and bad judgment to hand over your client, chances are good that you will not be walking out of the situation. Fight or flight, you want a strategy that will allow you to get away clean, by whatever means necessary._

The small group turned a blind corner at full speed, only to be confronted by an alleyway with no exit.

"Keep movin'!" Sam said, already changing direction.

"Can't!" The Doctor protested. "They've got her down here!"

"You're **sure**," Michael said, meeting his eyes.

"Yes."

Michael looked again at the corridor that the shelves and boxes formed-it was wide enough, as he understood the dimensions of the TARDIS, to be concealing the ship. "Those boxes at the end-" He began.

"On it, Mikey," Sam said, and hurried down the aisle, leaving Michael and Fiona to provide cover fire.

"Go," Michael told the Doctor.

"But-"

"We'll catch up. Go!"

To his credit, the Doctor didn't argue any further, just turned and followed Sam at a run. The noises that came shortly thereafter told Michael that the boxes were being removed.

"You next," Michael told Fiona.

"I'm not leaving you!"

"You're not; you're just getting there ahead of me. Go!"

Fiona hesitated a moment longer, as if she would argue further, but finally nodded tightly and left. Michael backed down the corridor more slowly, alert for any sign of pursuit. By the time he reached the others, the boxes had been pulled away to reveal a blue police box. Despite their grim situation, he found himself vaguely amused when he saw the Doctor pull out an old-fashioned key… the very one Fiona had removed from his pockets a lifetime ago.

"How are you gonna get this thing outta here?" Sam asked.

"Easy; we just need to get inside."

"**All** of us?"

A shot screeched off the support of a nearby shelf. Michael immediately returned fire. "Could you have this argument later?" He suggested.

The Doctor didn't need prompting; he was already slamming the key home into the lock. There was a solid _click_ as the tumblers fell into place-

-at the same time a shot came from almost directly above them.

Michael cried out as he fell; Fiona very nearly echoed the sound, but hers was a primal shriek of denial and rage. She returned fire, seemingly blindly, but corresponding shouts told them that her aim was true.

The Doctor was on his knees by Michael, hands covered in blood as he applied pressure to the wound. "Help me!" He exclaimed, looking up at Sam.

The former SEAL dropped down beside the pair, instinctively covering the Doctor's hands with his own to apply more pressure to a wider area. "You said this thing won't make an exit wound?"

The Doctor shook his head. "No. He's lucky; it spent without hitting his heart. But we've got to get him into the TARDIS."

"What? The hell with that; we've got to get him out of here!"

"And we will, but your hospitals aren't equipped to deal with this! I can take him somewhere that is-but we've got to hurry, he's running out of time. We need to get him into the TARDIS, **now**."

"Sam, help him," Fiona ordered. "They're coming!"


	18. Chapter 18

Doubt still showing plainly on his face, Sam nodded. "Keep your hands on that," he ordered the Doctor, then lifted Michael.

Fiona opened the door to the TARDIS; she looked inside, and for just a second pulled back. She glanced back at the others, her eyes wide-and saw Sam right behind her. Resolutely, she stepped forward, into the ship.

Sam initially had no reaction at all. His rational mind knew that they could not all fit inside such a small structure; he also knew it was the only viable option that he was being presented with. Even though the whole of his attention was on Michael, he suddenly realized that he'd taken more than the few steps that he'd thought would be possible. "What-?" He started to ask, as the Doctor suddenly pulled away.

"Need both hands," he said apologetically, going to the centre console. And he was already using those bloodied hands; throwing levers, turning cranks, pressing buttons. The centre column began to pulse with a greenish light, and a strange sound-almost a groaning-echoed throughout the chamber. "Hold on!" the Doctor cried.

The warning was barely enough; Sam staggered as the entire ship (much bigger than he'd originally thought or even thought **possible**) was jarred. Another lurch and he went to his knees-Fiona dropping beside him in order to keep Michael's head from hitting the floor grating. By the time Sam was composed enough to demand to know what was happening, everything had stopped.

"Come on!" the Doctor exclaimed, hurrying away from the control centre with long strides. He threw the door open, then turned back to Sam. "Give him to me," he said.

Sam stared at him. "No way."

"Please, you've got to trust me. The people here, they know me. They'll help."

"Sam," Fiona said impatiently, "we're running out of time."

Sam glanced down at Michael, and then met the Doctor's eyes. "Look, I'm holdin' you responsible for this. He doesn't come outta this; neither do you. You get me?"

The Time Lord nodded gravely, accepting the threat.

Grudgingly, Sam transferred Michael to the Doctor's arms, half-expecting him to be unable to support his weight. But the Time Lord took the human without any apparent strain, then stepped out the door with Sam and Fiona following after.

A woman dressed in a white nurse's uniform was approaching hastily, her eyes fixed on the Doctor-in this way, she didn't appear to notice the two humans staring at her.

"One of your Companions?" she asked, reaching the Doctor.

He shook his head. "No; a friend."

"But dear to you already," she said knowingly. "Follow me." She started off without waiting for a response, and didn't seem disturbed by the entourage now accompanying her. "What happened?"

"Borer round, shot by a seeker scope."

They reached an intersection in the corridor. "And he is a human, yes?"

"Yes."

The woman nodded, and made a turn as if in accordance with the answer.

"Think they'd get an orderly or somethin'," Sam muttered to Fiona.

The nurse did not turn, but replied nevertheless. "If you wish to save your friend's life, we cannot waste time. The Doctor has sufficient strength to transport him; others will gather at need."

Reaching a room, she stepped inside and held the door open for the Doctor. "Place him on the bed, there," she instructed. "Now leave us."

"Thank you," the Doctor said as he left the room, beckoning Sam and Fiona to follow. They did, although reluctantly.

"You're just gonna leave him in there?" Sam asked.

"They're trained professionals," the Doctor replied patiently. "We'd only be in the way."

"But she's a **cat**!"

"And you're xenophobic," the Time Lord said tiredly, collapsing into one of the nearby chairs. "They will take the best possible care of him, Sam, I promise you that."

"Are they… allowed?" Fiona asked.

"How do you mean?"

"You've said that Michael is fixed in time, that certain things have to happen. How do you know this isn't one of those?"

"Because I'm a Time Lord." The Doctor replied seriously. "But it's more than that. I wasn't exaggerating when I said that my meeting Michael changed history. The same thing gives me a bit of play; this wouldn't have happened if he hadn't met me, so it's not a fixed event, which means that I can intervene-and I'm choosing to. I don't want him to die." He sighed after he said this, bowing his head and running his hands-still stained with Michael's blood-through his hair.

"So what you're sayin'," Sam said slowly, "is that this really is all your fault."

The Doctor looked up at him wearily. "If you'd like it spelled out so simply, then, yes."

"That's not fair!" Fiona said sharply, glaring at Sam. "If this were any other job, you wouldn't be blaming the client if Michael got hurt-it comes with the territory."

"This isn't 'any other job', Fi."

"Why?" She demanded. "Because Michael didn't ask for it? It's not the first time! Or is it because he," and here she nodded at the Doctor, "isn't human?" She practically spat the last word at him.

Sam opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. "This isn't helping Mike," he said finally, and leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

Fiona glared at him for a moment more, then moved over to sit next to the Doctor. He didn't respond, but she took one of his hands in her own and squeezed it. "It's going to be all right," she said quietly. "Michael's strong. He'll pull through this, you'll see."

The Doctor made a soft sound that might have passed for a laugh in some cultures. "I've nearly gotten your man killed, and now you're trying to comfort me. That's rich."

"Self-pity doesn't suit you, Doctor," Fiona said primly.

This time, the Time Lord's smile was genuine. "No, Marm."

"That's better. Now, how long do you think it will be before we hear something?"

The Doctor considered. "His wounds were fairly serious," he began thoughtfully. "Could be as much as… oh, say an hour, before they're done with him."

Fiona stared. "'Done'," she echoed.

The Doctor nodded. "I know it's a bit slow, but I know the people here; we have a history. Or is that a future? In any case, I'd rather it take longer and know the job's well done, than go someplace where they'll simply push things through to impress the Board with their turn-around time."

"Where **are** we?" Fiona asked.

"New New York, on New Earth," the Doctor replied. "Only add about fourteen more 'new's to the first, and you'll have it a bit more exact."

"This is our future?" Fiona asked.

"Yours precisely, no. But your people, your planet? Yes." The Doctor smiled.

"And, all this… if Michael dies…."

"If he dies at the wrong time," the Doctor corrected gently. "Or in a manner not intended. But essentially, yes; if that happens, all that you see here may never come to exist."

"What does he do?" Fiona asked.

The Doctor smiled and shook his head. "Ah, now that'd be telling, wouldn't it? But consider this; it's nothing so simple as how you perceive it-which is to say, it doesn't have to be a specific event. Mostly-and truthfully-it's who Michael **is**, and what comes out of that, which makes the difference."

Fiona nodded, apparently thinking over all that the Doctor had said. He, in turn, seemed to be anything but contemplative. Getting to his feet he began to pace, hands thrust deep into his pockets, staring down at the floor. The least little noise caused him to look up-always towards the door that he had taken Michael through.

"Wouldn't you know," Sam asked, "if the world started to end?"

"It's nothing to do with that!" the Doctor returned sharply. "I've seen the end of the world; **my** world. But a single life is worth no less, for all that. Maybe it's worth more; I know the cost-and so do you. Even if it's in a good cause, when has it **ever** been easy to lose someone you care about? And this isn't! Michael's death would be senseless… and for a little while, the end of the world wouldn't matter. That'll come, oh, hundreds of years from now. **We** will feel the effects far sooner, and they will hurt. Now, I don't have any foolish notions that he and I are particularly close, but I do count him as a friend. Worse yet, he's here because of me. So in the end, I'm waiting for the same reasons as you." The Doctor was slightly tensed as he ended this tirade, as if expecting another cutting remark from Sam.

But it never came. Instead, Sam simply nodded once, and went back to leaning against the wall.

Frantic energy spent, the Doctor slumped back into the chair that he'd originally occupied.

"Doctor?" The nurse had stepped out of Michael's room, into the hallway. "May I speak with you?"

He nodded, getting up and following her down the hall without speaking.


	19. Chapter 19

Sam had pushed away from the wall, dropping his hands to his sides. He was startled to find that Fiona had taken one, and was holding it tightly. Without looking at her, he gently squeezed it in return. They watched the Doctor and the nurse in quiet conversation, able to hear nothing more than the murmur of their voices-there was every chance, Fiona realized, that the pair was no longer speaking in English. All they had to go on was the body language, and when the Doctor emphatically shook his head and made a sharp negating gesture, she began to worry. When he finally started back to them, she released Sam's hand and hurried to him. "What is it?" She asked.

"Complicated," the Doctor answered. "Michael's from the past, and they wanted- oh, you'll see."

"But he's all right?" Fiona insisted.

Sam gave her a dubious look. "He's been **shot**."

"Yes, and if we'd taken him to a hospital in Miami, he'd already be dead!" Fiona looked back at the Doctor. "He's all right?" she asked again.

The Doctor nodded. "He'll be fine."

Fiona made a relieved sound that was not quite a laugh, and hugged the Doctor tightly. His eyes widened for a moment, but then he smiled and returned it.

Sam gave the pair a sceptical look, shook his head, and left them to it.

"Doctor?" The nurse was standing in the doorway, looking at them inquiringly. "You may see him now; you and your friends, that is."

"Thank you," the Doctor said, and led the way into the room.

Michael was sitting on the room's sole bed, looking utterly untouched save for the blood on his clothing. He seemed about to speak when Fiona ran to him, grabbing onto him tightly as she buried her face in his shoulder. Without conscious thought he moved to hold her, stroking her hair.

"You feelin' all right?" Sam asked.

Michael nodded. "Fine; although," his eyes travelled over the Doctor's bloodied clothes, "I get the feeling I shouldn't be."

"Depends on what you mean by 'shouldn't'," the Doctor replied. "Did take a few liberties, but you'll note that there's still a planet beneath you. It's sorted."

"Where are we?"

"In this case, 'when' are we is probably the more appropriate question, but given your peculiar nature, it's probably best that I don't answer that. So, 'where' it is! That is to say, New New York, on New Earth. No time for the tour, though; have to get you lot back. Ready, then?"

Michael got up, still looking slightly surprised when he was able to do so.

"You're perfectly fine," the Doctor assured him. "Not a lingering side-effect to be found. They'd had some qualms about that, mind. Given their preference, they'd have saddled you with a recovery time and scars-they've this notion that being from the past, your mind might struggle without the transitional phase. I assured them you were more than strong enough to handle it, and that it was **imperative** there be no sign of what happened to you. Which, given you, is in fact the truth."

Fiona still held tightly to Michael's hand as they made their way down the hallway, back towards the TARDIS.

"Where do we go now?" Michael asked, then amended, "or when?"

"Back to Miami. Your loft ought to be safe enough; more still once I get the attention of UNIT and draw them off."

"What about you?" Fiona asked.

The Doctor shrugged. "What about me? I'll be fine, always am."

They'd reached the TARDIS by this time, and Fiona pulled away from Michael to explore the outside of it. "This… this is incredible," she said softly, running her hand across the ship's side. "It feels like wood, but it can't be."

"Another function of the chameleon circuit," the Doctor replied. He opened the door, and gestured for Fiona to step inside. She did, still looking around in wonder, and he smiled as he watched her.

Michael was slower to enter; carefully examining first the outside of the ship before entering. Inside, his attention was taken by the centre console, more than the incongruity of size. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, but closely examined the various instruments-paying as much attention to the clearly jury-rigged ones as the originals.

The Doctor followed closely, an indulgent expression on his face. He was aware of a sensation similar to déjà vu; realized that he would reflect on this moment in the future, and made a determined effort not to ruminate on it further.

Sam alone stood stiffly apart from the others, clearly uncomfortable with the surroundings. The Doctor passed close beside him, and said quietly enough that the others would not overhear; "Just shut your eyes and hold on-you'll be back in seconds." Speaking in a more normal tone, he addressed the others. "Right, then; back to Miami. Allons-y!"

The return journey was not much smoother than the one out, for all that the Doctor was less frantic in his actions. Sam and Fiona already knew to hold on; Michael nearly copied their actions, but soon gave it up to try his balance and watch the Doctor pilot the ship.

"And here we are," the Doctor said, as the light of the centre console dwindled away. "I've set the coordinates to materialize right behind your loft-'fraid I can't do anything for your car, that'll be wherever you left it. Just open the door," which he did as he was saying so, "and Bob's your uncle!" He exclaimed happily, stepping out.

The others followed, blinking around in the bright morning sunlight.

"Or not," the Doctor reflected a moment later. "Lost a few hours in there somewhere; sorry about that."

Michael's phone beeped; he frowned as he pulled it out and looked at it. "Voicemail," he explained, opening it. His frown deepened. "Seymour." He pressed another button, and listened to the message.

"What's the matter?" Fiona asked, watching a subtle range of emotions cross his face.

"The team from Torchwood-or UNIT-is dead," he related, shutting the phone.

"I shot one of them; I know I did," Fiona confirmed. "But not all of them; there wasn't time."

Sam looked at the Doctor. "Your doing?"

The Time Lord shook his head. "No. I'd not have done it like that. I meant to lure them away… get them back to Britain before going where they couldn't follow." He frowned, thinking. "Still have to do that; keep UNIT away from you. As is, if you get blamed for those deaths…."

Michael shook his head. "We took precautions-but even if we hadn't, the whole thing is being blamed on drug runners." The ex-spy considered. "I get the feeling there's something Seymour's not saying."

"You think he did it?" Sam asked.

"Not his style; too high profile," Michael replied. "But he might have an idea who did. Remember what he said; there's a way to pass word. Maybe someone else was even more afraid of Torchwood than he was."

"Or angrier about their being here," Fiona suggested.

"Right," the Doctor said slowly, "except that so far as we know, it **wasn't** Torchwood, but UNIT."

"Which lends credibility to the idea that there's a faction inside of UNIT working with Torchwood," Michael replied. He looked at the Doctor. "You'll be all right?"

"'Course. You?"

Michael nodded.

The Doctor started to say something, hesitated, and then apparently decided to go ahead. "Give me your phone," he said.

Curious, Michael handed it over. "You know, I usually go through these things pretty fast."

"Not this one," the Doctor said, without looking up. An application of the sonic screwdriver and a few button presses later, he handed it back. "Keep this one safe. With it, you've got the means to contact me-anywhere, anywhen. If you need me, I'll be here."

Michael accepted his phone back. "Thank you," he said, deeming it polite to do so.

"Oh, and one other thing. I've asked the TARDIS to keep translating for you; I think you'll find it helpful. Just be mindful of the fact that she will, so you don't get yourself into trouble with an ability you ought not have."

"How long will that last?" Michael asked.

"So long as I'm alive, or until I regenerate. With any luck, **that** won't be happening any time soon." The Doctor took a step back, towards the TARDIS. "Right, then. This is me, going off."

"Will we see you again?" Fiona asked.

The Doctor nodded, but his eyes were on Michael as he spoke. "History changed the day Michael and I met. That created a whole new state of affairs, for both of us." He opened the door of the TARDIS, stepped inside, and then turned around to lean back out. "Oh, yes. You'll see me again."

The door shut. A moment later the strange groaning of the TARDIS' engines began, and as they watched, the ship faded from sight.

_No matter how far the government is willing to go to watch you, no matter who's pulling the strings to try and control your life, chances are good that they're not using the last of the Time Lords to do it. So if the Doctor says that history has changed and he'll be back, you can count on one thing-he'll be back._

End


End file.
